


Voodoo

by TechnicolourMind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 59,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicolourMind/pseuds/TechnicolourMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By all accounts it should have been impossible.</p><p>First, Derek saves her, then she saves him. Then they saved one another.<br/>But when Derek loses everything he never thought he'd have, it takes someone he never thought he'd need to show him that redemption is like the waves tumbling onto the sand; persistently changing and entirely constant . And that love is like the night sky, though it does not always look like you think it should, ever-present and without bounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Avalanches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek approached the body, noting that it was a young girl -probably Cora's age- and that she looked like she'd spent the best part of the night traipsing through the forest, and if she had been hoping to complete that task unscathed, she was in for a big let down.  
> Because aside from being dead, she had been bleeding from a small gash on her temple and her arms and legs looked like she had slept in a briar patch. It was hardly surprising considering that her chubby body was completely unprotected from the environment except for a flimsy red ladies-night-dress-thing.
> 
> "Derek," Cora said haltingly. " I think she was murdered."

  
  
It was a bit like being pushed into cold water without warning.  
Somewhere between one breath and the next she had gone from sneaking a cigarette in the garden, the warm summer breeze only just this side of comfortable despite her silk chemise, to having icy rain beaten into her skin and eyes by a vicious wind, the sharp droplets thundering down so hard that she can barely see more than two steps ahead of her.

  
Yet despite the blank terror and stomach-turning shock because _oh god she was standing on something hard and_ slick _not soft grass and it was pitch black instead of dusky and don't even with the fucking rain,_ she found herself swallowing past the wail that had lodged itself somewhere in her throat.  
  
Make no mistake, she was _shitting herself._ But that was because it was dark and cold and she didn't know where she was or how she got there, and that was a perfectly good response to the given circumstances thank you very much. Fear was not a bad thing, panic was. She could vaguely remember someone once saying that fear kept people alive, but panic killed them. And she was not panicking, no sir-ee.  Not even a little bit.  
  
Which she had to admit would have been difficult to convince people of (if there were any there, which there weren't) when she -feeling too exposed on the naked surface- proceeded to spontaneously bolt off to the side, without goal or direction, and then fall headlong as it became apparent that the hard slick surface was simply the wet wood of a _huge_ tree stump. This had the unforeseen consequence of causing three things to happen. Firstly, that the sensation of falling felt so akin to what she had felt in the minute moment between smoking in the garden and being doused that for the briefest second she had thought, mid fall, _thank god I'm going home_. And then when she hit the stony ground and the hard but slippery knot of a tree root the second thing happened, namely that she cut her temple on a sharpish stone, thus getting dark blood and muddy water on the crimson chemise that she had just gotten from a friend for her eighteenth birthday -a sort of thanks-for-the-sex-I-wish-you-all-the-best, and which was now thoroughly soaked and sticking coldly to her goose-bumped skin.  
The third and most surprising thing was that when she managed to right herself, teeth chattering from the cold and skull throbbing something awful, something about the scent of blood and that earth and the wet wood seemed extremely familiar. The type of familiar that makes you feel trembly and buzzy with fear, the exact same feeling she used to get at the start of one of her reoccurring nightmares, the sort of feeling that said that she knew somewhere in her mind what was going to happen next but yet somehow the knowledge evaded her, leaving her mind scrambling to grasp desperately at the feeling that something very bad happens here.  
And so it was with that feeling of impending horror at her heels that she turned and ran, without direction or thoughts regarding a route, but away from that tree.

 

  
Derek pulled up by his old family home, turning to give Cora the look that would sufficiently communicate the don't-track-mud-blood-or-fur-into-my-car rule that it was still necessary to give her every time they did these runs, but she was already out of the car and tearing into the forest, shifting onto all fours and disappearing before Derek has the chance to shout that he knows for a fact that she was not raised in a barn so just _close the damn door_.  
With a put upon sigh and a glower at the gaping door for good measure, Derek walked around the Camaro and nudged the offending door closed.  
  
Derek was mid-stride when he thought he smelt something strange. It was barely there, let alone a traceable scent, but the wrongness of the smell caught his attention (albeit briefly) enough that he actively looked out for it as he continued running, cutting a looping trail that hopefully challenged Cora enough for her to be interested in the game, but remained easy enough that she felt like she had a shot at winning. Not that she did. Because Derek was her big brother and big brothers were physically incapable of letting their kid sisters win.

  
She could not think of a single time in her life that she had ever been so cold before.  She couldn't tell if it was the exhaustion of walking up this hill or...or something else maybe, that made moving her legs in any way feel like wading through molasses. Though wading through molasses wouldn't have given her all these scratches and cuts on her vulnerably bare arms and legs as the kept losing her footing -at first from the violent shivering and then when that had stopped, from the way her legs kept stumbling as her traitorous knees kept trying to buckle.  
Everything felt cold and stiff, even her thoughts felt slow and immovable. All that she knew was that she had to keep going and get to warmth, or maybe she could die. Because she just wanted to find a hole and crawl into it, and some distant part of her brain felt like maybe that was the last step before the end, like there was a word for it. _Term_... _terminal-something?_ it was getting really hard to maintain her inner dialogue when- _Terminal Burrowing!_ her legs crumpled beneath her, and this time when she tried to get up her body wouldn't move.  
  
She tried to remember why she had thought to go this way, or why she was even here in this  brutal place, but her thoughts kept running around into each other. As if every time she traced back along her train of thought she somehow ended up right where she started. Realising that there was literally nothing she could do besides breathe, she lay there on the forest floor and tried to block out the way the brutal wind was chilling her with a cold that she felt like ice in her bones, trying instead to be grateful that it had stopped raining.  
  
A distant rumble seized her attention.  
  
It sounded like a hundred horses galloping towards her, and indeed the noise seemed to be drawing ever closer, until at last it felt as though surely they could not come any closer without going right over the top of her and a thousand wild creatures were thundering around her. Their dark shapes moved too fast to identify individuals from the mass of dark fur, but the warmth from their combined bodies swarming past her was warming her skin. She wanted to convey her gratitude to these beasts that were saving her but suddenly the heat was too much and it was burning her skin, cooking her alive until there was nothing she could do but pray for the end.  
  
And all of a sudden it was gone.  
There were no beasts, and she was so cold.  
She barely saw the shadow approaching her before the warm exhaustion pulled her under.

 

  
Derek was getting tired of waiting for Cora. The rain would have made his scent harder to follow, granted, but it shouldn't have taken a born wolf like Cora this long to find him. Perhaps these were the consequences of their family being dead for most of her teenage years; she hadn't had anyone to teach her the way his parents had taught him. He should have considered this and started training her sooner, along with the other teenagers he'd turned and who were learning for the first time how to be wolves.

Derek was just starting to really smother himself in his guilt when he heard Cora's howl rolling through the forest.  
Between one heart beat and the next, Derek leapt into a run towards the sound. He'd recognised the hint of panic at the end of the howl, a drop in the melody which, though he couldn't quite explain why, made him run faster and with more urgency.  
  
Cora had sounded like she was maybe four or five miles away and Derek was almost halfway there when he ran across a scent trail that had him skidding on the fallen leaves that littered the ground. The action turned up the top layer of soil and churned the soggy leaves, saturating the air with the smell of compost and wet earth, but even that was not enough to cover the metallic smell of human blood.  
  
Derek took barely a moment to mentally note the location before shooting off again in the direction he was going before he had stumbled across the strange scent. He ran with a smooth speed, his movements coordinated so that all his effort could be translated into tearing through the forest, faster than any vehicle could ever hope to on this terrain.  
  
Derek was just nearing Cora's howling location when he was confronted with Cora's scent mixed strongly with the stranger one. He could smell blood -not Cora's thank god- and the saltiness of Cora's sweat mingled in with something that smelled a little bit like fear, but wasn't quite fear. Which was a good thing probably, because if Derek had found himself drenched in the acrid odour of Cora's terror then he would have charged in, fangs out, and completely missed the other smells that lingered underneath the recent and distinct scent of his sister. For example, the smell of grass, some sort of flower and distantly cigarette smoke. All hidden under a strange, sickly sweet smell that felt like magic.  
  
And so it was with stealth and caution that Derek covered the last few hundred meters to his sister, expecting to see her with another Druid or even more likely -because nothing bad had happened in a week, and that usually just meant that he didn't _know_ about the bad things that were no doubt happening to him- another fucking darach.  
  
So he was equal parts relieved and horrified when he approached his sister, and she was standing beside a corpse.  
  
Derek approached the body, noting that it was a young girl -probably Cora's age- and that she looked like she'd spent the best part of the night traipsing through the forest, and if she had been hoping to complete whatever - _highly detrimental to Derek's peace-_ task unscathed, she was in for a big let down. Because aside from being dead, she had been bleeding from a small gash on her temple and her arms and legs looked like she had slept in a briar patch. It was hardly surprising considering that her chubby body was completely unprotected from the environment except for a flimsy red ladies-night-dress-thing.  
  
"Derek," Cora said haltingly. " I think she was murdered."  
  
Derek just raised an eyebrow at her in response. Partly because it seemed faintly obvious -besides the thick smell of fear, nobody gets ready for a trek in the woods by quickly whipping on their silky-lingerie-gown-thing - but mainly also because he knew that Cora loved to hate it when he did that, and she could use a little ribbing every now and again. She was too serious for a 17-year-old, too much like he had been.  
  
"Maybe hunters?" she offered, and Derek would agree, it was typical hunter goading to make a Red Riding Hood joke, except Chris Argent seemed to have a strong grip on the hunter situation in town, and hunters steered far clear of the magic he could smell lingering on the girl.  
  
Intrigued, Derek leaned in to inspect the body more closely, his phone already in his hand to call Sheriff Stilinski. He was mid-way through searching the neck for any sort of bite or ligature marks when the corpse inhaled a short, shallow breath. _Holy motherfucking_ -  
  
Derek scrambled back a pace, throwing his phone at Cora as he did so. She snatched it out of the air just as he commanded, "Call Deaton" and she quickly obeyed.  
Meanwhile, Derek was feeling for a pulse but coming up short. She certainly _seemed_ dead, icy cold and stiff, but he knows that it was definitely an exhale that he had felt against his forehead a moment earlier. So he cupped his hands over her heart and put his ear to them, straining to hear something -anything.  
  
 _whu-thm_  
There it was. That was definitely a heart beat, even if it sounded so weak and distant that Derek would not have heard it had he been human.  
  
"Deaton!" Cora was shouting down the phone, despite the fact that it was almost 3 am and they had almost definitely woken him up. Derek could hear Deaton's mumbled reply and thrust out his hand to take the phone and put it on speaker phone next to the corp- girl.  _Not a corpse yet._  
  
"Deaton!" Derek barked at the phone, "Girl in the preserve, ice cold and mostly dead but there's a pulse and breathing and it smells like magic."  
  
There seemed to be a pause in which Deaton tried to understand why the second Hale in as many pre-dawn minutes was shouting into his ear, before Deaton snapped into action.  
  
"Does it smell like the magic is coming off of her, or that it was-"  
"-No." Derek cut in, time could be running out for the girl.  
"Can you smell any herbs or powders?" Deaton remained characteristically calm, despite Derek cutting him off, maybe thinking just like Derek was about the seconds slipping past this girl.  
"...no." He could smell blood and fear and cigarettes and all the usual things, and then he realised that the floral hint he'd gotten earlier was roses and so he passed that on to Deaton.  
"No, I don't recall roses having any significant properties pertaining to your situation." Derek huffed in annoyance. _This wasn't getting them anywhere!_  
"I'm guessing that you assumed she was dead because you couldn't hear a pulse?"  
He grunted an affirmative.  
"Derek, I think that you probably just have a case of severe hypothermia, perhaps brought on by magic, but hypothermia none the less."  
  
Hypothermia? It wasn't even _snowing._  
  
"The storm this evening is typical for the weather that catches people out." Deaton replied, as if Derek's derision had been loud enough to hear from the other side of town, where judging from the sounds coming from that end, Deaton was piling into his car.  
"Okay listen to me carefully-"  
Derek could all but hear Cora rolling her eyes behind him.  
"- unconsciousness is one of the last stages before death. You need to get her sheltered right now. Take her to the house, if it's close. Is it close?"  
Derek nodded, then grunted.  
"Okay now you need to be extremely gentle with her. If she gets jostled or you rub her skin or try to get her to use her muscles, all the cold blood from her extremities will rush to her core and she will probably die."  
  
Derek motioned for Cora to pick up the phone and carry it alongside him as he very cautiously lifted the girl into his arms and started a brisk walk towards the house. He kept his knees bent and his stride smooth, knowing that it was no good arriving at the house fifteen minutes later holding an actual corpse this time.  
  
"Derek, who is with you?" once Derek answered, Deaton continued without so much as a breath, "When you get to the house you will need to start removing her wet clothing and drying her as far as possible. Whilst he's doing that Cora, I need you to get some blankets and lie in them to warm them up. Then what you need to do is to take off your clothes and lie with the girl between you within the blankets, with as much skin-to-skin contact as you can manage, though the trunk is the priority."  
  
Derek glanced over at Cora, who glanced up to point out, "Perhaps I should run ahead and get all of that sorted for when you arrive..." she sounded unsure, but she made a good point and Derek made sure to communicate that fact to her. She turned to him, resting the phone in the girl's chest so that Derek could still talk to Deaton, and then ran ahead.  
  
"She will do better if she can inhale warm air so until I can get there with the machinery to help I'm going to ask you to breathe into her." Derek was dubious. He was already going to be naked and plastered to this girl, so macking on her seemed a bit unnecessary on top of all of that. "Just seal your mouth over hers and try to time your exhales so that she inhales your used air. Don't try to push her into a rhythm or force any air into her lungs. Her breathing will be very shallow and infrequent, so you can let go in between her breaths."  
  
Derek sincerely hoped that Deaton would turn up quickly, because he wanted to spend as little time as possible in a blanket bundles, with his naked sister and a frozen barnacle.  
Which is why his stomach dropped a little when he heard Deaton cursing under his breath.  
  
"What?"  
Deaton sighed, as if he hadn't just sent alarm racing up Derek's spine. "There's some fallen debris blocking the main road up to the preserve. I'm going to have to drive back around town and take the one coming up the other way."  
 _Shit._ That added a good hour to the time it would take Deaton to get there, because the other road was narrower and after the violent storm probably quite treacherous.  
  
"Until I get there I need you to make sure that you do not listen to her if she tries to tell you she is fine or complains about heat. It will most likely be excruciating for her once the blood flow starts returning to her limbs, and no matter what you have to get her to lie still and listen to you. Also, don't let her go to sleep. She'll be exhausted but you must not allow it."  
  
Derek was nearing the house now, and thank god because he was not sure he could retain any more instructions.  
  
"At the house." he passed on to the vet as he climbed the front steps.  
  
"Good. I'll be there as soon as I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first solo fic, so I would appreciate any constructive criticism you could throw my way.  
> I'm also looking for anyone with a desire to beta/Ameri-pick, as I have neither at this point.
> 
> Chapters are named after songs (that I highly recommend you listening to, btw) that I listened to whilst writing the chapters.
> 
> This chapter is named after 'Avalanches' by IAMX:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzhseW482vY  
> And the fic title is 'Voodoo' by Alexz Johnson:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PXwtmzLzCdg
> 
> Enjoy!  
> B  
> x


	2. Who Are You Really?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes more than a pretty face to elicit anything other than hostility from Derek.  
> And it takes a whole lot more to get an actual apology out of him. 
> 
> She is not inclined to be in any way forthcoming towards people who throw her against walls.  
> Even less so when those people have _fangs_.

  
After he had brought the half-dead girl into the remains of the house he had once called home, he had taken her into what had formerly been the living room, where there were small flames licking at the wood in the fire place and Cora was already nestled -naked, if the pile of clothes near her head were any indication- within a number of blankets and the shiny material of the emergency blanket he kept in the trunk of the Camaro.  
  
Derek narrowly avoided over-balancing as he struggled to place the girl on the floor as gently as possible, before using a clawed finger to carefully cut the wet material from her skin, grimly reaising that she didn't even have the body heat to dry silk.  
  
After spending an agonising minute leaned over her mouth, waiting until he felt the slightest huff of air against his cheek, he rose and quickly shucked his leather jacket whilst toeing off his socks and sneakers. He pulled off his sweater and the Henley he wore underneath in one move, before unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down, cursing as the material pulled tight on his calves, causing a momentary stumble that had Cora snorting at him from where she was peering over the edge of the cocoon.  
Eventually though he managed to right himself, looking questionably at the grey boxer-briefs that were the final barrier between him and full frontal nudity.  
  
"Derek, no."  
  
He scowled at his sister.  
  
"I am willing to lie here for the greater good, but I draw the line at seeing your morning wood."  
  
"You're gross." he grumbled as they cautiously eased the girl into the cocoon next to Cora, settling her on her left side, so that Cora could shuffle  in and plaster herself against the girl's icy back and legs.  
An unhappy whine escaped Cora's pressed lips at the cold intrusion  and Derek steeled himself for what he was sure was going to be an uncomfortable night as he slid in on the other side, closing the blankets behind him, making the emergency foil squeak and rustle in a way that grated on his sensitive ears.  
  
Finally he took the plunge and moved right in, so that as much of their bodies were touching as was practical. Derek took a sharp inhale through his teeth as her cold breasts first came into contact with his chest, but by the time he had worked an arm under her head so that he could manipulate it enough to do the breathing Deaton had prescribed, he was already getting used to the achy cold of her skin.  
  
Grasping Cora's elbow and aligning his arm to where hers was over the girl's waist, Derek settled in and took a moment to look at the bloodless face before his. Whilst he had carried the girl to the house, he had timed her breaths to know that they came about once every twenty seconds, giving him about another ten before he had to be ready to breathe into her mouth. Which was more than enough time to see that she was actually quite pretty, with a pixie-ish face that was probably quite attractive when her lips weren't blue and her cheeks bearing a deathly pallor. He could see now, up close, that she was covered in freckles. Even her lips were not safe, with one light little freckle resting on the curve of her cupid's bow.  
  
/seventeen, eighteen, nineteen-/  
Derek settled his mouth against hers, not fully sealing her lips with his own so that as he exhaled and heard her slight inhale, the excess air escaped instead of being forced into her lungs. A moment later Derek felt the cold huff of her exhale into his mouth. Satisfied, he  released her mouth and started counting again.  
  
  
  
By the time Deaton arrived, Cora's teeth were chattering and Derek was definitely starting to feel the cold. However, the girl's breathing had increased to about once every ten seconds, so Derek felt their efforts were definitely making a difference, even if she was still thoroughly unconscious and looked half dead. He did however find that if he listened very closely, he could hear the sluggish and weak _whump...whump...whump_ sound of her heart pumping.  
  
 He and Cora were allowed a moment to move around and warm up again whilst Deaton set up an IV drip to carry a warm clear liquid directly into her blood. Derek was just about to drop into some press-ups to try to get warmer when Deaton stopped him, sternly warning him, "Exercise will make you sweat, which will only increase heat loss when it cools. For you that could be uncomfortable, perhaps even risky were you human, but for her-" he looked at the girl's body lying completely still on the floor, "-it could be deadly."  
  
Derek didn't have anything to say to that, so he stood watching Deaton silently as he inserted a clear plastic tube down the  girl's throat before sucking on the tube until the contents of _her stomach?_ -Derek had to suppress a shudder and swallowed back the urge to gag- were near the top of the tubing. Then Deaton quickly attached a large blue funnel to the top of the tubing.  
  
"Cora will you please pass me that thermos there by your feet?"  
  
Deaton accepted the flask from her outstretched arm before she pulled it back under Derek's leather jacket, which she had draped over her shoulders in an effort to preserve her underwear-clad dignity, popping the cap and pouring a small amount of yellowish liquid into the funnel and town the tubing into her stomach.  
  
"Golden syrup in warm water" Deaton answered in response the question nobody had asked, whilst removing the tubing. The girl started gagging as the tube slid back out her throat, which Derek thought could only be a good sign.  
  
"That should warm her from the inside," Deaton said, straightening and stepping aside, "whilst you two warm her from the outside."  
  
They took that as their cue and rejoined the girl in the sleeping bag, carefully negotiating the drip and quickly settling back into their previous positions, though Deaton told Derek he no longer needed to breathe with her.  
It may have just been his imagination, but Derek could have sworn that as he pressed his chest against hers that she felt a fraction less cold than she had before.  
  
  
  
By the time the sun started rising the girl still felt a little cold to the touch, but she looked less dead and Derek could hear her heart beating steadily as she inhaled and exhaled warmly against his face.  
He could see Cora dozing lightly on the other side, snuggled in below the blankets into the girl's neck.  
  
Before he could warn her otherwise, Cora muzzled in too far and a strand of the girl's short blonde hair tickled her nose, and Cora sneezed, jolting them all.  
  
  
  
She came to with a jolt, a split second of adrenaline granting her clarity before she felt the most intense exhaustion settle onto her body. That split second was just about enough to realise that she was pressed between two bodies, and that she was on /fire/.  
Everything felt strange as she started flailing, which in her current exhausted state meant mostly weakly writhing against the two very naked bodies with her. If she had not already been naked she would have ripped off whatever clothing she had on just to quench the fire that burned along every inch of skin.  
  
She became vaguely aware of the pained moans leaving her mouth as she heard a man's voice calling out, "Derek calm her!"  
  
 _Derek_ placed a hand firmly against her cheek, forcing her to look into his eyes. She felt the pain fade from existence as she gazed into his eyes, her heart calming and her breathing coming back from the short panicky gasps as she looked into the grey-green of his irises. He had a darker ring around the outside of each, and a dark fleck near the 4 o'clock of his right eye.  
  
 _He was so beautiful that it actually had healing powers_.  
  
As he removed his hand, she realised that she was gaping and shut her mouth with an audible snap.  
  
  
 _Fuck she had beautiful eyes_.  
 Derek snapped himself out of that train of thought abruptly and mercilessly. The last time he'd looked at a woman that way, many people had died whilst he was blinded by her beauty. Actually, the time before that too.  
He hastily brought the hand that had been cupping her cheek back down to where it had been alongside Cora's  on her waist, but the second he did so he could see on her face that she had just become instantaneously and alarmingly aware of her nakedness. He watched her face with a sick sort of fascination as it displayed in real time as she became aware of her situation. First, that she was naked, then that he was naked, and pressed up against her, then that Cora was naked and equally close behind her. He watched with a weary sort of awe as first she looked positively scandalised, then comically horrified, and then after her eyes lit up with a sudden understanding, intense embarrassment.  


_Oh God oh god she was so naked and they were both so beautiful and also /naked/ and oh god what are you supposed to even do in this sort of situation?_  
  
"Hypothermia?"  
  
She had meant for the question to sound assured and somewhat resigned, as if communicating a sort of _aw shucks that hypothermia again, putting as all in this uncomfortable but inevitable situation_ idea but at the same time saying _it's cool I know all about this so there's no need to explain anything to me, in fact, let's not even talk about it at all, let's just pretend that there is literally nothing untoward about this predicament_ , but instead it came out hissy and voiceless, like that time that she got laryngitis before her German speaking exam and everything she'd said sounded so pathetic and unsure -despite the fact that she was very sure Ich fuhl mich so fifty-fifty provided only a one-sided, juvenile view of the reunification of Germany- that her teacher had written to the exam board asking that she be exempted from the oral examinations.  
  
Whether it was the statement itself or even just the fact that she was speaking, it did seem to snap everyone into action. The person behind her started rolling her onto her back as Mr Magic Beauty sat up beside her. She vaguely remembered that Mr Magic Beauty actually had a name, but she couldn't remember it right now and frankly, Mr Magic Beauty was accurate.  
  
"Derek."  
  
 _Oh there it is_.  
  
A dark-skinned man was handing 'Derek' - _whatever she could still call him Mr_ _  
Magic Beauty in her head_ \- a cup of something he'd poured from a large thermos.  
  
"Sit her up, you may have to sit behind her to support her weight."  
  
Which Mr Magic Beauty - _god it was long perhaps she should just go with Derek after all_ \- did of course have to do, because although she could summon the strength to yank her body up herself ( _yeah take that! Support her weight pffffft_ ) she just started to topple ( _okay so maybe there's nothing wrong with a little support_ ) and so it wasn't until she was firmly planted in the vee of Derek's legs with her back sound against his broad chest that Derek was once again handed the cup by the girl.  
  
As she followed the cup with distrustful eyes -not because she didn't know what it was, it was probably something sugary and warm to give a her a quick source of energy, but because it was probably going to taste sickly- she noticed that the girl was wearing a bra. Which of course reminded her that she herself was not, and that the blankets had fallen down to expose her breasts.  
Her puffy pink nipples and pale breasts looked remarkably vulnerable in contrast to the jaggedly scrunched material of some sort of reflective emergency blanket, and with alarm she tried to pull the blankets back up to cover them. But with growing frustration she discovered that, although she could move her arms, her hands were clumsy and she couldn't get any sort of grip on the blanket.  
  
They must have noticed her alarm, because the girl reached forward to help her as a deep voice murmured from behind her, "Okay take it easy,"  
  
And so she stilled, allowing herself a moment to take a bodily inventory. Her limbs all felt stiff and tired, also potentially maybe a little numb and burny, kind of like she'd been out in the cold and then stepped into a warm room.  
  
Which well, _duh_.  
  
And her head felt stingy and sore but thankfully not achy, in a head-injury sort of way, despite it's solid connection to a gnarly tree root the day- _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ -  
  
 _Where was she? How did she get here? What the ever-loving_ fuck _was that last night? Who were these people? How did they find her? Did they know how she got here?_  
  
There were so many thoughts simultaneously crashing into each other in her mind that it took her a moment to realise that the cup was bumping insistently against her bottom lip and that the man behind her was the one whose hands were firmly but not ungently wrapped around hers, where she was feebly gripping the cup. It gave her the small but precious illusion of having a sliver of control within her clusterfuck of a situation, and she regained enough discipline over her thoughts to sip from the cup.  
  
 _Oh ewwwwwwwww._  
  
She spluttered a bit against the sickly taste clinging to her tongue, but before anyone could stop her she tipped the cup and knocked the whole thing back like some sort of horrific, blasphemous, disgrace of a shot.  
Three people surrounding her chuckled lightly, because apparently her desperate measures to finish that disgustingly sirupy water were amusing.

She was about to say something when she remembered how pathetic her first attempt had sounded, and cleared her throat.  
They seemed to take this as some sort of announcement and looked at her questioningly.  
  
"Uh thanks."

_Oh wow._ _  
Loquacious_.  
  
They didn't seem to mind though, their responses ranging from the kindly smile that the dark-skinned man levelled her way to the ambiguous huff that Derek gave from behind her, his warm breath rushing into the valley where her neck met her shoulder. She was violently ticklish there, and before she could stop herself, she was jerking her head to the side and a peal of laughter was flying out from between her lips.  
And suddenly the wall of muscle behind her stiffened and she was scrambling to think what she had done wrong. Sure the laughing and the jerking hadn't been exactly _dignified_ , but she wouldn't have expected it to promote the outright hostility-  
  
"My name is Alan," the kind man was saying, looking at her expectantly.

_Oh._  
"Alona.".  
  
"Okay Alona. That's Cora," he said, motioning at the girl who had helped her. "And behind you there's Derek."  
  
She turned her head up to look at Derek, and the gaze he levelled at her was assessing, and strangely impersonal  considering that she was plastered to him, his warm skin pressed firmly against hers, all the way from her ankles, up the outside of her thighs, over the curve of her hips and then the entirety of the stretch between the top of her arse to her shoulders.  
His gaze was so juxtaposed to the strangely intimate contact of their bodies that she felt a tingle of fear prickle down her spine.  
It only grew stronger when he seemed to notice the way she suddenly felt a little scared of him, and instead of reassuring her or anything of the like, seemed to be almost placated by it.  
  
 _He's used to people fearing him_.  
She suppressed the urge to lean away from him, and turned back to Alan, who clearly had more to ask than just her name.  
  
"Do you know where you are, Alona?"  
"No."  
She didn't know for a _fact_ that they were in America, though Alan's accent would have suggested it. But really, who jumps from summertime England into whatever-the-hell-storm-that-was America?  
She realised with a jolt that it was entirely possible that she was not in the same place she had been when she had lost consciousness. When she had jumped (fallen _? Been pushed, dragged?_ She didn't know) from one place to the other the night before she hadn't had any sort of control over it, and therefore it was surely possible that it had happened again whilst she was asleep without her knowledge? What if this had happened before and she simply hadn't realised it at the time?  
  
Alan seemed to have noticed that she had disappeared into her own thoughts when he cleared his throat expectantly, and once he saw that he had her attention he continued in an aggravatingly calm voice.  
  
"You're in Beacon Hills," he looked at her expectantly for some sort of flicker of recognition as he continued, "You were found in the Beacon Hills Preserve in the early hours of this morning."  
  
She found it supremely irritating when people phrased questions as statements, she gave straight answers to straight questions, and so she said nothing. She'd give him a real answer (there was no point in lying at this point, she didn't know enough about the situation to produce a convincing lie anyways) once he asked her an actual question.  
Instead she used the expectant silence to take in her surroundings, which consisted of nothing more than a burnt out room that had clearly seen better days -because, well, _burnt out_ \- and some medical paraphernalia, including but not limited to some see-through piping that explained why her throat was so sore. She saw the empty IV bag and concluded that Alan must be some sort of doctor, or maybe a nurse, since she hadn't noticed any of the typical soreness that came when fluid had been flushed through a needle that had missed a vein.  
  
She turned her measuring gaze back to Alan, but immediately regretted it. He was looking at her in way that made it apparent that he had seen her attentiveness, and she had only a second to wish that she had played dumb and unaware before he spoke.  
  
"Why are you here?" his tone wasn't suspicious, per se, but it was not longer as comforting as it had been.  
She really should have played dumb.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
There seemed to be some sort of silent communication between Derek and Alan over her head.  
  
"How did you get here?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Again with the over-head not-quite-speaking.  
  
"What are you?"  
  
Well okay, that took her by surprise.  
  
"Uh...I'm sort of between jobs at the moment."  
  
Derek honest-to-God _fucking growled_ at that. And not just a sort of _argh-stop-fucking-around_ vocal expression of aggravation, but actual, animal _growling_. She would have thought some sort of massive dog thing was in the room with them if it wasn't for the way she could feel his chest rumbling against her back.  
  
Cold terror washed over her as she slowly turned her head and saw that his eyes, _his motherfucking eyes were motherfucking red_.  
  
She tried to bolt.  
She was surprisingly successful considering that not that long ago she had needed help sitting up.  
She made it about four paces before he grabbed her by the back of the neck and threw her against a wall. She looked up from where she was crumpled on the floor at his towering, growling figure and let out a terrified shriek that dissolved into helpless crying when she saw his teeth. Because they weren't teeth anymore, they were fangs, and he had _claws_. Long, deadly claws.  
  
She was still shaking and crying uncontrollably when Alan leapt up and, grabbing Derek, started talking him down.  
  
"Stop Derek, she's just a human," which would be an odd thing to say if weren't for the fact that Derek most definitely was _not_.  
  
"She doesn't know about wolves, if she did she wouldn't have run." Derek hadn't calmed down though, he was still growling and his fangs still looked deadly and his eyes were still very, very red.  
  
"For god's sake Derek!" Alan raised his voice, drawing the monster's gaze to him for the first time, "Look at the girl! She's terrified."

  
Derek did look at her then. It had been a long time since he'd terrified anyone.  
Sure, he was the king of not-so-light intimidation, and he would go so far as to say he preferred it when the majority of people had a healthy fear of him -because it was just that. A healthy fear.  
But this was not just the small thrill of fear most humans felt around him, the ultimate predator. He could see her body trembling as she cowered away from him, and the stench of fear was rolling off her in thick, gut-clenching waves.  
In the end it was her heart, hammering out a frantic and thudding rhythm- as if it was trying to get as many final thumps out as possible before it was stopped beating altogether- that made him sheath his claws, and allow his posture and appearance to become non-threatening.  
  
After all, Deaton had been right. If she was in any way involved with the supernatural, she would have known never to run from a werewolf.  
  
But he couldn't ignore the way she had smelled of magic.  
There would have been a time perhaps, that for the sake of simplicity, he would have simply ignored the fact strange things were going on, purely on the basis that they didn't directly involve him or his pack.  
But he had learned recently that, as with all things supernatural in Beacon Hills, they didn't involve the pack _yet_. So it was his responsibility as alpha to nip whatever this was in the bud.  
  
If she wasn't herself a sup -he grimaced as he realised that he had just used one of Stiles' overly-casual words- then that meant that she was the victim.  
  
Derek rubbed a hand over his tired eyes.  
He just knew that he was going to live to regret this.  
  
"Alona, I'm sorry I scared you." he said, dropping so that he could lock his gaze with hers from closer to her level.  
  
A sigh from Deaton made him add, albeit reluctantly, "And for throwing you against the wall."  
  
He noticed that she'd stopped trembling, and that her crying had stilled to the point where the tears slipping down her face were as good as silent.  
  
"My name is Derek, and I'm a werewolf-" he held up a placating hand as she heaved in a sob, "-and I promise I'll do my best to help you. Okay?"

There was a long and tense silence, only breaking when she finally gave a shaky exhale.  
  
Her nod was minute, and she still looked petrified, but it was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going through a bit of a tough time, so writing this has actually just been so amazing in terms of engaging in some light escapism.
> 
> Still looking for beta, so any volunteers please don't hesitate :)
> 
> Who Are You Really? by Mikky Ekko:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Wl4UnxMlJY


	3. Oxford Comma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek sighed as the girl and Cora cast twin looks of derision at him over the jeans Alona was holding open in front her. He was going to rue the day these two met, he could tell.
> 
> "I'm torn between being offended and relieved that you have failed to notice how fabulously bootylicious my arse is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Oxford Comma' by Vampire Weekend:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_i1xk07o4g
> 
>  
> 
> Hey guys, I'm so sorry that this one is so late -family drama yo.
> 
> I have finally hashed out the rest of the plot for this thing, and I will probably just tag things as they come up in the story because let's not give the game away yeah?  
> I should warn you though, things gon' get ugly.  
> And yeah,this is a sterek fic, but sterek does not happen until waaaaaay later.  
> But it will happen, and it will be good.

Cora called him a fucking moron when he activated the Camaro's internal locking system.  
  
He glared at her. He may not have be her alpha anymore, but he could still kick her ass seven shades to Sunday. However, in turning around to deliver a scathing glare at Cora, he caught sight of Alona.  
She was sitting perfectly still, and if it wasn't for the smell of fear quickly clogging the air inside the car and the white-knuckled grip with which she was clasping her hands in front of her, he would have assumed that nothing was amiss. As it was he huffed and disengaged the locks, watching in the rear-view mirror as her gaze flickered to the door handle and her grip loosened.  
  
As Derek started the car and pulled out onto the road back into Beacon Hills he considered the plan of action. After they had coaxed Alona out of the crouch and into allowing herself to be wrapped in one of the felt blankets, everything had seemed to draw to a close pretty quickly. Deaton had started clearing up his equipment and had firmly ordered Derek to bring the girl to the clinic tomorrow evening for a 'more appropriate' check-up, which Derek took to mean that Deaton expected him to keep an eye on the girl until they got a chance to figure everything out.  
  
Which, okay, that should be easy right?  
  
  
  
Wrong.  
  
 _Oh course it wasn't easy things were never just easy._  
Derek sighed as the girl and Cora cast twin looks of derision at him over the jeans Alona was holding open in front her. He was going to rue the day these two met, he could tell.  
  
"I'm torn between being offended and relieved that you have failed to notice how fabulously bootylicious my arse is."  
It turns out, once you removed _cold_ and _scared_ from her character description, _snarky_ and _English_ jumped right to the front of the queue.  
  
Derek sighed and pinched his nose, because as a matter of fact he had been working very hard not to notice anything about her "arse". Or her breasts for that matter. Absolutely nothing about her tiny waist and the way it sloped into the generous curve of her hips-  
No.  
  
It didn't help one bit that after getting over her initial jumpiness, she had shrugged off the majority of her nervousness along with the blanket, nakedly demanding that she really needed some proper clothes.  
So Derek had hurriedly pulled out a pair of his jeans and an old green wifebeater.  
  
She had plucked on the wifebeater, which in hindsight was a terrible choice because the green brought out her eyes _which he was not going to even notice the colour of because he was a grown man in control of his urges_ and the neckline was too low and narrowly covered the sides of her breasts, the soft material hanging lightly from her nipples, which he had definitely not noticed softening in the warmth of the loft.  
  
There was no warmth in the gazes boring into him though.  
  
"Do you not maybe have like, a track suit bottom or something?" she asked, uncertainty flickering across her face. Derek realised for the first time that this was probably actually just very awkward for her. He exhaled through his nose, tension slipping as he found and handed her his only sweatpants.  
  
She slipped it on quickly -perhaps she was slightly less chilled about nudity than she let on- and unlike the wifebeater, the track suit was a size or two too small. She turned slowly, for whose benefit Derek did not know, and he could see that they would need to go shopping. The grey material clung to the globes of her ass too closely, leaving too little to the imagination for his peace of mind, and although the shirt was looser, it couldn't hide the way the waistband squeezed into her love handles, creating a soft curve that Derek's teeth would just _love_ to handle. If, y'know, he were noticing things. Which he was not.  
  
They really needed to go shopping.  
  
  


Derek was eyeing the meat thermometers and wondering whether a lifetime of blindness would be worth it if it meant he would never have to resist looking at Alona's ass or Cora's insufferable smirking ever again.

  
  
It was a close call, but he couldn't risk having either of those things be the last thing he ever saw. He'd either never be able to jerk off again or he'd never be able to stop.  
  
 _God he was giving_ Stiles _a run for his money_.  
It was a miracle that kid even walk given how much he jerked off, if the smell of his bedroom had been any indication the few times that Derek had stopped by.  
  
Derek firmly shook any and all thoughts of jerking off out his mind as he saw Cora and Alona advancing upon him, looking triumphant.  
  
They'd happily left him to his misery whilst they'd gone off to pile an alarmingly large collection of toiletries into the shopping cart, firmly tuning out their conversation as soon as they had started debating the merits of different types of _feminine hygiene_.  
  
But now they seemed to be done with that - _thank_ _god his time of the month was more hairy and less disgusting_ \- and they were dragging him towards the frozen foods section.  
  
Their stomachs had all been rumbling violently for the last hour and a half, so this was a plan Derek could fully get behind. There was next to no food back in the loft, unless you counted a can of chopped tomatoes some microwaveable popcorn.  
  
Derek was leaning into one of the freezers to remove a large bag of lamb chops when he became aware of Alona's presence by his side, close enough that he could feel the slivers of heat floating from her skin. He straightened, chops in hand, and turned to place them in the nearby cart before turning his attention to her, brow raised questioningly.  
  
His actions had put additional distance between, as had been his intention, and she stepped towards him, closing that distance before looking up into his face.  
There was a split second where he thought that she was going to kiss him, before he noticed the faint trembling of her jaw and the goosebumps crawling along her bare arms. _Moron_.  
  
  
  
Derek was looking at her expectantly, and Alona suddenly found the power of speech deserting her like the fair-weather friend it was.  
She was trying -and failing- to say that she was freezing and that, frankly, she expected him to sacrifice his comfort and give her his jacket, when he seemed to twig that she was cold all by himself and shucked off the jacket silently and without hesitation, holding it out to her, as far as was possible really, considering she was about half a foot away from him.  
Which, oh yeah this could be misconstrued as a come-on, she realised, though she doubted Derek had taken it that way. He hadn't spared her so much as a glance since she had pulled his clothes on back at the loft. Which, though it smarted, was thoroughly unsurprising. The man was a study in beauty. And irritation, if the permanent-scowl was anything to go by.  
  
She realised that he was still holding out the jacket, And by now there was a slightly huffy look creeping onto his face, as of he was trying to figure out what else it was that she could possibly want from him if not his jacket.  
She unfolded her arms and turned her body slightly to reach the jacket, because for some reason he was actually holding it out a little bit past her waist into the space behind her, before she remembered with sudden, blushing clarity why she'd crossed her arms in the first place.  
  
Her nipples were pebbled into hard, attention-grabbing peaks. She felt an outraged gasp slip through her lips, _those traitorous bastard_ s.  
She chanced a darting look at Derek to see if he'd noticed her pointy little problem, and _oh god, for sure_.  
His stare was 50% horrified and 50% pained.  
Which, ouch.  
  
She could feel the blood rushing across her neck into her face as she grabbed manically at the jacket, jolting a little when her fingers just made contact with his.  
She was secure enough to admit that, okay, it could potentially be said that she had _scrambled_ to put his jacket on, all the while trying to puzzle out why she was suddenly being so weird when, hello, she'd already been pressed up against his naked body.  
  
 _ABORT ABORT ABORT_.  
  
It was probably better not to think about Derek's naked body being plastered against anything whilst there were Werewolves around.  
With the way things were going, they probably had some sort of supernatural arousal-sensing mojo going on. She had had more than enough vulnerability for a lifetime, thank you, without admitting unrequited lust to the list.  
  
With that in mind, she tried to keep at least three feet behind Derek and Cora as they made their way down the aisle,  increasing the distance between them when -before she could stop herself- she sniffed the sleeve of the jacket. She shouldn't have done done it, it was a patently terrible idea, but despite all her efforts to the contrary, she was still a teenage girl. And when a teenage girl was given a jacket by a boy, she smelled it.  
  
The leather was soft and smelled well-worn. It smelled of the forest and woodsmoke, but also of person ( _Derek_ ) and - _oh god was that jizz?_ _  
_  
 _That was totally jizz_.  
  
She lowered the sleeve away from where it had been pressed up beneath her nose, looking at it in confusion. Why would Derek's jacket smell like semen?  
She was so confused that she barely noticed Derek casting an inquisitive glance her way before she raised the other sleeve and sniffed.  
  
  
Derek was still wondering why she was hanging back so far when he heard the deep sniff she gave his left jacket sleeve. As she pulled it away from her nose, her confused frown deepened, and Derek felt his stomach drop and his balls disappear up into his body, nestling somewhere between his kidneys.  
He was still desperately trying to think of a sufficient distraction that wouldn't out the existence of werewolves when he saw her holding up both arms in front of her, eyes darting comparatively from one to the other.  
He could see it coming, like two cars heading towards a crossroads, neither noticing slowing down, not seeing each other until it was too late and-  
It was like the realisation had slapped her in the face.  
,  
"But- but-" Alona was spluttering under her breath, which of course made Cora's head whip up from the freezer she had perusing, her face loaded with dangerous curiosity. _Great_.  
  
Alona was shaking her arms in front of her, as if she could somehow shake an explanation out of them, "-But who wears a jacket when wanking?"  
  
 _Someone who's outside, obviously_ , Derek wanted to say, but Derek was still hoping that Cora hadn't heard her, and even had that been different, he doesn't think he can form words past the mortification lodging itself in his throat.  
Unfortunately, Cora seems to have read his mind, and with the biggest shit-eating grin he has ever had the displeasure of seeing, turns and calls out to Alona,  
  
"Have I told you the story about the Spunk Trunk?"  
  
Derek groans, which only encourages Cora more as she practically skips over to Alona to recount her favourite story from Derek's childhood, never mind the fact that she had been to young at the time to remember it, but Derek had been given so much shit about it that the story itself had become immortalised.  
  
"What's a Spunk Trunk?"  
  
Derek had been so busy dying a thousand deaths that he almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden voice behind him.  
He whipped around, trying desperately to think of a convincing and less-humiliating explanation than the truth.  
He was saved by the Sheriff appearing behind his son, grocery cart in tow. It was filled with vegetables and whole grain pasta, amongst other Stiles-certified healthy foods, and Derek shot a sympathetic a glance at the Sheriff, who was gazing at the lamb chops in Derek's cart with a slightly forlorn resignation.  
  
Stiles squawked indignantly when he saw the pitying look on Derek's face.  
"No!" he flailed, raising his arms as if to form a barrier against the cholesterol-fuelling influence of Derek's groceries, "No meaty influencing allowed!"  
  
Derek could feel his lips curving up as he raised his eyebrows at Stiles.  
He hadn't seen the kid since everything that had happened at the start of the summer, and loathe as he was to admit it, he had been concerned that the events that had taken place with the Darach and the alpha pack would have come between them.  
  
But clearly nothing had changed, because as soon as Stiles caught sight of Alona approaching them over Derek's shoulder, he could detect the familiar salty smell of Stiles' arousal.  
  
Derek had almost forgotten about his earlier mortification when Alona came to a stop next to him, eyes watering with suppressed laughter.  
He scowled at her, which only made her laugh outright.  
  
"Don't worry Derek," she was barely managing to breathe between the huffs of laughter she was absolutely failing at holding in, "I- I _wood_ never judge you!"  
She let out a wild peal of laughter at that, hanging onto Derek's arm for support as she crumpled under the hilarity of her own joke.  
  
She was still wiping the tears from her eyes when she finally, _finally_ calmed down and straightened up, turning politely towards the Sheriff and Stiles, who were wearing contrasting expressions of accepting bewilderment and raging curiosity.  
  
Alona suddenly cleared her throat, lifting her chin and extending a hand.  
  
"I am terribly sorry, that was very rude of me. I'm Alona."  
  
  
  
There were several long moments of awkwardness as Alona looked at the pair expectantly, whilst they stood there in a stunned silence.  
  
It was the older man who _thank fuck_ finally shook her hand, introducing himself.  
"I'm Sheriff Stilinski, and this," he said, forcefully clapping a hand on the shoulder of the boy, whose eyes were bouncing between her and Derek like a pinball, "is my son, Stiles."  
  
 _Stiles Stilinski?  
Wow poor kid_.  
  
Stiles Stilinski still wasn't responding to her in any way, his eyes now glued to Derek's with a serious _what the fuck_ stare, as if she'd just stuck her hand out and said that she was teaching Derek the in-depth history of the Kama Sutra, as opposed to, y'know, _her name_.  
  
She cleared her throat pointedly, because frankly that was just rude, and whilst she had been unintentionally rude earlier, she had promptly apologised. And this kid (though, okay, he looked pretty close to her own age) wasn't even looking at her, let alone apologising.  
  
As if they could sense her growing anger,  Cora shifted her weight slightly towards her whilst Derek placed a placating hand in the centre of her back, his thumb gently running backwards and forwards over the ridge of her left shoulder blade, which was just getting her worked up in a completely different way.  
  
Derek's movement seemed to snap the boy out of it, and he stumbled slightly, "Hey sorry hi Alona, did you know that in 1919 there was an explosion In Boston that resulted in 21 people drowning in a flood of molasses? Actually never mind you probably don't want to know about that, sorry, its just that I don't think Derek's ever introduced us to a girlfriend before and I babble when I nervous, it's a really unfortunate side aspect of my personality unless you like being bombarded with useless facts like, all the-"  
  
"-you're wrong." Alona cut in, stopping the boy in his tracks.  
He spluttered, "What?"  
"Well for one, 21 people died in the Boston Molasses Flood, but only about two thirds of those were actually as a result of drowning, the other third were crushed by the weight of the molasses wave."  
"Oh cool!" Stiles was actually enraptured, and Alona lapped it up.  
"Yeah totally! Or well, no. But yeah did you know that often a large number of the casualties in tsunamis and floods are not actually from drowning, but rather from debris in the water and then later as a result of disease, like, not many people actually drown."  
"Huh. I always just assumed..."  
  
"Never make assumptions Stiles," Alona caught his gaze, mock serious, "They are almost always incorrect."  
  
Stiles nodded at her, surprisingly earnest despite his jittery energy.  
  
"Well this has been...educational," The Sheriff exhaled, as if he was used to whip-lash-worthy up-down of her interaction with his son, which considering that Stilinski The Younger had opened with a fact splurge was actually kind of unsurprising.  
  
"Well son, I'm going to go and pay for these," he cast an unhappy glance at the strange over abundance of kale in his trolley, "and you can come meet me by the car as soon as you're ready."  
  
"Sheriff." Derek said with an indecipherable nod.  
  
There seemed to be some sort of silent communication thing going on between everyone, and it did not involve her. She felt a bright flare of irritation, which she realised was probably more rooted in the undercurrent of fear that she still hadn't been willing to shake, unsure if she even could, since this had all started, rather than any sort of irritation at being excluded from the meaningful-and-pointed-looks club.  
  
  
  
"Sooooooo Derek..."  
  
Derek was forced to look up from where he had staring at Alona, who seemed to have gone into her head since he had greeted the Sheriff, and was now giving off a faint odour of distress.  
  
"Have you and Alona known each other for long?"  
Stiles' lips were slightly parted and his eyebrows were raised, his eyes flicking pointedly from Derek's towards Alona.  
  
 _So Derek, have you checked whether the girl you want to bone isn't a murdering psycho?_  
Derek resented the sentiment almost as much as he resented the fact that it was actually quite justified. Stiles -who always saw far too much when he wasn't letting his stupidity get in the way- seemed to read this in Derek's face, and just raised his eyebrows at him.  
  
Stiles and his stupid wiser-than-thou expression irked Derek to the point that he ground out, "We are _not_ dating."  
  
"Haha yeah no way!" Alona was laughing, but it sounded forced and she smelled strongly of something bitter, like walnuts.  
"Derek may look like a Greek god but unfortunately he gets a little too hairy to ever have a chance with all of this." she punctuated the 'this' with a sharp spank to her behind, and the sound of the smack took a fast track from his ears and straight to his cock, the sharp burst of arousal strongly juxtaposing the way his stomach curled inwards on itself at the wolf jibe.  
  
Derek tried to keep his face neutral and failed as he watched Stiles -was it too much to ask that stiles was less observant just this one time?- breathe out a relieved laugh and reply with a smile that was almost a grimace, "Yeah I know what you mean. I take it's not a problem that you have much first hand experience of?" whilst his gaze flitted uncomfortably between Alona, whom Derek belatedly realised was wearing solely his clothes, and Cora.  
  
Whatever he was looking for from Cora, he probably got it, because Derek watched his face relax a little into a normal smile before Alona managed to reply that no, until this morning she hadn't even realised that people could get that hairy.  
Which apparently piqued Stiles' interest sufficiently that he wasn't paying attention as he stuck a hand out to lean against the display beside him, which was made of little more than shiny paper and therefore promptly gave way the second Stiles put his body weight into it, crashing straight through the advertisement so that all that remained of the sign read 'PORK' in large, black letters.  
  
"Ow shit. Shit." Stiles was cursing as he scrambled to get up, "Shit I'm going to banned for sure if they find out this happened again."  
Stiles was looking around frantically and so didn't notice the way that Alona's eyebrows inched up one at a time, first her left and then her right as Stiles -seemingly satisfied that he hadn't been caught red-handed- started rapidly backing away from the scene of the crime, and by extension, them.  
  
"Uhhhh right okay I can't get caught again so I'm just gonna- uh yeah okay- we should talk soon- or like get everyone together and just- yeah okay I'm just gonna-"  
  
And with that he rounded the corner and disappeared, his converse squeaking on the linoleum as he made his getaway.  
  
  
  
As soon as Stiles disappeared around the corner Derek sighed and looked at their trolley, his face looking as exhausted as Alona felt.  
  
"I think we have everything we'll need for now." Cora said, her permanent smirk gone for once and her face unreadable. Her arm rubbing against her brother's as she reached over to take the trolley from him. The touch seemed to loosen something in Derek's shoulders, and he released the trolley to Cora before turning to Alona.  
  
"Is there anything else you need?"  
He looked tired and a little worn down, a little more vulnerable without the leather jacket, and Alona almost gave it back to him just to make herself feel better.  
She recognised that she'd been a bit of a dick earlier, making jokes about something that he couldn't change, just because she'd been hurt and offended that he had been so angry at the notion that they might have come across as a couple. They both knew that she didn't have a snowball's hope in hell with a man like Derek, all rugged and silently beautiful, when she was just a girl really, and whilst she was not in any way self conscious about the fact that she was larger than most other girls her age -she knew she was attractive- but she also knew that you couldn't be everybody's cup of tea. Unless you were Derek - _wow she totally didn't know his surname_ \- in which case you were like fucking _water_.  
But yes, it had smarted slightly that he was so repulsed by her that he would be so adamant, and _to her face_ above it all.  
  
But she would tug on her big girl boots, because she was above pettiness - _clearly not_ an unhelpful part of her brain supplied- and she replied, "No I'm good, let's head home."  
  
"We can hear your heart falter when you lie." Cora threw over her shoulder as she sauntered towards the tills.  
  
Alona turned back to Derek, her mouth opening and closing uselessly as she took in his raised eyebrows, which were very high on his forehead considering how heavy they looked.  
  
"Okay well," she finally conceded," I am pretty desperate for a smoke."  
  
To her surprise, Derek gave a curt nod.  
"We'll pick some up when we stop for gas on the way back. And then you can use the balcony."  
  
She gaped a little.  
  
"What?"  
  
" No speech about how unhealthy it is? No complaints about the smell?"  
  
"It's your body isn't it?"  
  
Well, yes. But she hadn't been expecting him to realise that.  
  
"What?" he growled a little. It may or may not have made something low in her abdomen jump.  
  
"Nothing. Just- I wasn't expecting you to get that. I sort of took you for the 'A woman's place is in the kitchen and the marital bed.' type."  
  
She had put on a stupidly deep and buffoon-y voice when describing 'his type' but had slightly over-reached with the deepness to which her voice could comfortable go, making her cough and splutter a little.  
  
Derek huffed out what could only very loosely be described as a laugh,  smirking at her chagrined smile as he pointedly remarked, "Never make assumptions Alona,"  
She felt her cheeks reddening as he threw her own words back at her, "They are almost always incorrect."  
  
He ticked up an eyebrow before turning on his heel and striding away.  
  
That thing that had jumped in her abdomen before? It was practically _dancing_ now.


	4. Swinging Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You didn't think that was worth mentioning at the meet and greet?" he yelled, punctuating _that_ with a double-armed flail in direction of the vacant air where Alona had been a moment before.
> 
> "Oh hey, this is Alona, she wears wears my clothes and _also apparently teleports_."

Alona fumbled with the lighter as she tried to light the cigarette pursed in her lips. Her hands were a little swollen, the tips of her strangely pudgy fingers numb and clumsy as she tried to roll the spark wheel for the millionth time, ready to hurl the lighter over the edge of the balcony in frustration.  
She huffed an annoyed breath through her nose, clinging to the knowledge that no lighter meant no nicotine in order to stop herself from pulling a tantrum and rage-quitting.  
At last she managed to produce a flame to light her fag and took a long drag, tipping her head back to look at the overcast sky before exhaling a long plume into the frigid air, the rush of the nicotine coming hard and fast as it always did when she had gone a while without lighting up. The drug felt good, soothing some of the raggedness of her emotions and she felt some of the tension seeping from her brow as she rolled the familiar yet decidedly different flavour around her tongue.  
Derek had bought her a pack of Marlborough Red after her request for her usual Mayfairs had left the cashier looking blank and hesitant. The difference was notable but not a problem, though it would probably take a little getting used to. At least they weren't menthol.  
  
  
  
"Hot Pocket?"  
  
Derek looked up at Cora's offer only to realise that it wasn't directed at him but at Alona, who was closing the door to the balcony behind her, the smell of cigarettes overpowering the last lingering sweetness of magic in her scent.  
Derek had had to suppress an amused eye roll at the speed with which Alona had marched into the loft, changed into the new clothes they had purchased for her and made it out to the balcony to get her fix.  
  
"Uhhh yeah sure," Alona sounded uncertain.  
  
"I've never had one before so..."  
  
"Well we better help you sort your life out then." Cora replied, gleefully ripping into the box and removing five pockets before promptly starting to heat them in the microwave.  
  
"So you guys are werewolves right?" Alona asked nervously as she approached Derek and sank into the leather cushions of the large settee, one of the few luxuries Derek had allowed himself when furnishing the loft.  
  
At Derek's raised brow she continued on, " So you guys know about magic and supernatural creatures and shit, right?"  
Her face bore the same nervousness he'd seen on Laura's face the week after she'd met the new Girls' Basketball captain at school and had sat down in their mother's warm kitchen to ask her how you can tell when you're in love. The question had made Talia Hale radiate joy and tenderness, and the answer had made Laura blush and stammer that maybe she was, a little.  
The warmth of the memory coupled with the rounded innocent upset of Alona's eyes (which he was still not noticing, by the way, green was a vague and insufficient enough description for whatever it was going on there, and he wasn't going to take the time to come up with better one) were what prompted him to perch on the corner of the low coffee table and meet her eyes as he gently admitted, "Some."  
  
His answer was sufficiently ambiguous that if she were the next Big Bad, he hadn't shown all his cards. Besides, it was the truth. He didn't need to know everything because they had Deaton and -let's be real here- Stiles for that. And Peter, whenever he deigned to show up.  
  
"So what am I?"  
  
The innocence and fear in the question made Derek's heart clench.  
He didn't much want to feel any sort of sympathy for the girl, not when he still struggled to believe he could trust her, and the irritation he felt at his reaction made his reply come out much harsher than he'd intended.  
  
"You haven't exactly given us anything to go on."  
  
"Oh, yeah of course," she ran a hand through her hair, " It's not that I was trying to hide anything I just- I didn't want you to think- I mean-" she broke off with a mirthless laugh.  
Derek understood her though.  
  
"You didn't want to appear more vulnerable than you already were."  
  
The glassy wetness of her eyes as they met his was confirmation enough that he was not incorrect in his understanding.  
  
"Look," Derek sighed, looking down at his socks. He wasn't very good at reassurances. He had once punched Stiles' palm in lieu of reassuring him that Derek could do what needed to be done to get Boyd and Erica back. Which he hadn't, not fully.

 He steeled himself to "use the talky-talk, Derek" as Laura had put it, and continued, "I promised you that I would do my best to help you, and I stand by my word. If you can tell us everything you know, then I'll do my best to help you figure it out. I'll even out-source to Stiles if I have to."  
  
"Stiles is your research guy?" Alona asked, incredulous. "Actually that totally makes sense."  
  
Derek quirked a smile at that.  
  
"So run us through what happened to get you into that forest last night."  
  
Alona took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she seemed to gather her thoughts.  
"Right so, uhhh, so. My name is Alona Mortimer, I was born on the 14th of January 1995 -wait what are you doing?" Her brow furrowed quizzically as he set his cell on the table.  
  
"I'm recording this so that the necessary information can be passed on to whoever we need to ask."  
  
Recognition crossed her features, "Oh yeah that makes sense. Good thinking."  
  
He nodded at the compliment, before prompting her, " So you were saying you're seventeen-"  
  
"-No I'm nineteen."  
  
"But if you were born at the start of '95 then you're seventeen."  
  
" Uh, /no/." She said, frustration creeping in.  
"Look," she held up her hands, counting off on her fingers.  
  
"96, 97, 98, 99, 2000, 2001, 2002 -3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 2014."  
She waved the nine fingers she was holding up at Derek.  
"See? Nineteen."  
  
Derek was too stunned to take offence that she had counted at him as if he were a preschooler.  
"You said 2014." He finally managed to croak out.  
  
"Well, _duh_." She was looking at him as of he were the slowest idiot to have ever crossed her path.  
  
"It's May, so we have to count 2014 as well, because it's already been my birthday."  
  
 _Holy Shit_.  
  
"No we don't."  
  
She pinched the bridge of her nose at his statement.  
  
"Good Lord I have been rescued by a fucking imbecile."  
  
She said it under her breath, but he could tell that even Cora had heard it as the sounds of her quiet chuckling came to him from the kitchen.  
  
Derek grit his teeth, " _No_ , this fucking imbecile just happens to know that today is October 20th _2012_."  
  
He heard her sharp inhale, followed by a contrite "Oh."  
  
"So how about we continue with where and _when_ you came from?"  
  
"Yes okay."  
  
"So uhhh, like I said, born '95, never experienced anything... Magic-y. I, uhhh, I had spent the entire day at home because I'd done a triathlon the day before-"  
  
Derek was surprised at that. She didn't seem the _active type_.  
She seemed to notice his surprise and cast him a sharp glare for it.  
  
"-and I was tired. I had a visitor and uhm...look how much detail do you want here? Actually no, I don't care. This may be significant right?" She looked at Derek, who shrugged. He had no idea where this was going and if it would be of any use to them.  
  
"Right so, we had sex, or rather, we- I- oh my god this is awful. Let's just say that I was the only one whose trained pulled into the station? Not!- not because I'm bad in bed."  


Derek could feel his eyebrows inching up towards his hairline, which only served to offend her further.

  
  
"I will have you know that I am a _fan-fucking-tastic_ shag."  
  
Derek couldn't suppress his smirk at her confidence.  
When he was her age he had believed that he was great in bed, but at that point the entire experience was still so novel that he simply hadn't yet taken part in a truly amazing sexual experience to know that he was most definitely not giving them to his partner.  
  
His disbelief seemed to irk her more, which he found deeply amusing, but they weren't getting anywhere.  
  
"So...?"  
  
"Ah yes, anyways. It was her time of the month, but she still wanted a good bye... And well, there you go. So yeah, nothing weird happened, until I went out to have a smoke and like, _mid-inhale -_ it -it felt like I was falling and- there was a tree, or not a tree -a huge tree stump-"  
  
 _The Nemeton_.  
 _Fuck_.  
  
"-and it was raining really hard and it was super dark and, like, _really_ scary."  
  
Cora walked in with the warmed food, setting down the plates on the coffee table before asking Alona, "Why didn't you stay there and call for help? You wouldn't have known that you were in a forest, your human senses are too weak. So why run?"  
  
Derek hadn't thought of that, actually. He rubbed the soft skin of her underarm to let her know that she had done well, and she preened at the non-verbal praise before huffing and throwing herself down beside Alona, as if she could hide her delight at receiving her Alpha's approval.  
  
"I had this feeling, like," Alona turned her gaze up towards the rafters as she sought the right words.  
  
"You know when you have a reoccurring nightmare?"  
  
 _Did they ever_.  
  
" Sometimes at the beginning you'll get this feeling that you've been there before? Like you know that something really bad is about to happen, you just can't remember what it is or how to stop it?"  
  
Her eyes were big and scared, and seemed to be darting around looking for a danger that wasn't in the present.  
  
"I felt that. I was already so scared, I just ran."  
  
  
  
Derek looked down at where Alona was sleeping quietly in his lap. Her breaths were deep and even, and every once in a while her hand twitched where her loose fist was resting on his thigh.  
She looked simultaneously younger and older as she slept, the lack of tension in her sleeping face making her seem more youthful and innocent, but without the vivacious energy she maintained whilst conscious, the maturity of her features was left unmasked. There was an angularity to the bones of her pixie-ish face, sharp cheekbones that were easily hidden behind full-cheeked smiles,  a slight prominence to her brow bone that went unnoticed above her expressive eyes.  
And her eyes. For all his determination not to dwell on them and allow himself to get sucked in, Derek had found himself staring at them whilst Alona was enraptured in an episode of 24. They had all piled on the settee, Cora making herself comfortable beside him and Alona gradually thawing until she too was leaning against him, and before Derek knew it they were four episodes in and he was admiring the burnt orange ring of colour around her pupils whilst Jack was looking for the mole in his organisation.  
  
Seven hot pockets and five episodes later she had sunk down and was dozing in his lap whilst Cora fought sleep beside him. At one point he had become aware that she was having some sort of nightmare, her heart rate ticking up and the sour smell of fear starting to roll off her skin, but her face and breathing remained devoid of distress, and within moments she was sleeping peacefully again.  
  
It made Derek wonder.  
  
With the exception of what had happened in the house, he had yet to see her outwardly express any sort of fear. The scent of it still rolled off her at times, like when Cora had flicked out her claws to open a pack of bacon, but  even though her heart had thundered for a moment, it returned to a normal pace almost immediately, even though the smell of sour milk still came off her in waves.  
She'd glanced at him then, as if checking to see if he had noticed what she had done with her heart rate, but the moment her eyes had caught his her gaze had skittered away again, as if she had somehow been caught out.  
It felt like she was hiding something, and Derek did not like it.  
  
He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of a car approaching. He easily recognised the cadence of the Jeep, though by the sound of it something - _probably the exhaust_ \- had been knocked loose and was rattling like a tin band.  
  
He heard the frantic beating of Stiles' heart as he pulled up and leapt out of the jeep -from the sound of things running up the stairs- before hesitating outside the door.  
  
 _At least some people were still straight forward_.  
  
Stiles was sliding open the door to the loft when Derek became aware of the sudden uptick in Alona's heart beat, the rhythm going from the usual restful pulsing of those deep in sleep to a break neck pace, as the stench of fear clogged his nostrils.  
  
He was going to leave her to sleep -nightmares were far worse if you woke from them, he knew- but as Stiles approached him, face ashen and hands  fidgeting nervously at his sides, Derek scented the faint sweetness of magic.  
  
The cloying aroma thickened rapidly as Derek shook Alona awake, her eyes snapping open with blown pupils and a frantic, unseeing gaze.  
She had no sooner jolted upright than she was grabbing his shirt in desperate grip.  
  
" Derek I'm falli-"  
  
Her panicked words were cut off as she disappeared, the shirt she had fisted so urgently vanishing with her.  
  
"Holy Fucking Shit!" Stiles screeched,  his eyes darting between Derek and the empty space beside him.  
  
"You didn't think that was worth mentioning at the meet and greet?" he yelled, punctuating _that_ with a double-armed flail in direction of the vacant air where Alona had been a moment before.  
  
"Oh hey, this is Alona, she wears wears my clothes and _also apparently teleports_."  
  
"It wasn't relevant."  
  
"You're focussing on the clothes?" Cora asked, incredulous.  
  
"And the _teleportation_!" Stiles' voice rose in slight hysteria.  
  
"We've got it covered." Derek responded with finality, even though Stiles was actually their next port of call since Deaton had seemed unoptimistic over the phone after Derek had emailed him the recording early that evening.  
  
Stiles sighed heavily as if to say _when do you ever have it covered_ , but seemed to remember why he came when he continued, "Okay fine, whatever big guy. That is the least of our worries right now."  
  
 _Ah shit storm, my old friend_.  
  
"What happened?" Derek realised that he actually sounded more resigned than concerned.  
  
Stiles seemed to notice this too as he explained, in a softer voice.  
  
"I was driving back with Scott from a party in the woods-"  
  
Derek groaned.  
  
"- yeah look I know, but nobody listens to me about danger even though, hello, sheriff's kid? But anyway I thought it would be best if at least someone there was aware of the danger, besides Allison was going to be there with Isaac so Scott-"  
  
" _Stiles_."  
  
"Oh. Yeah so, driving. And I'm just crossing the intersection in town, you know the one by the tattoo place? Yeah anyway, so this car lets me go first, but then just as I'm going -BAM! He swipes me. I'm okay, I mean, Betty will need a little wooing before she's back in tip top condition-" Derek scoffed at that; that car would never be in 'tip top condition, " -hey! I resent that! But that's not the important part!"  
  
Derek raised his eyebrows, hoping it would spurn Stiles on to get to the part of the story which explains why he is standing in Derek's loft whiter than a sheet.  
  
Apparently it worked.  


" The other car was busted, but not too badly right? Only when I went to the driver to ask about his insurance since it was _totally_ his fault, the dude is dead. Like, deader than Peter dead. And why was he this dead after a relatively minor bump you ask?"

  


Stiles actually looked at Derek as if expecting an answer.

  
  
"Brain haemorrhage?" Cora provided.  
  
"No!" Stiles flailed at that, as if it wasn't a valid suggestion. Given that he was here in Derek's loft, working himself into a state, maybe that wasn't an entirely unreasonable sentiment.  
  
"His eyes had been gouged out!"  


Having apparently reached the punch line of his story, Stiles was looking at them, like they should be doing something other than what they were actually going with, which was sitting and staring at him in blank disbelief.

  
  
"You mean like poked out of his skull?"  
  
"Gee I dunno Derek, is there another definition of ' _gouged out'_ that my dictionary has been missing?" Stiles' breathing was growing ragged, and Derek didn't know what to do to calm him down again.  
  
"Because last I checked, eyeballs don't just fall out of heads."  
  
Stiles was running his hands through his hair and he kept taking little abortive steps to the side, as if he wanted to pace but was holding himself back.  
  
"Look," he said, finally turning his focus back on Derek, "Something had to have done the gouging, but he was fine before indicating and I am 100% sure that nothing left the car after he bumped me."  
  
He turned plaintive, "So please, could you maybe just come sniff it out? See if you can get anything from the scene?"  
  
"Okay." Derek sighed as he got to his feet, cracking his neck with a stretch to the side.  
He had known that a supernatural shit-show was never far from the horizon, but hopefully if they could nip this in the bud then they could all enjoy a little peace until thanks-giving at least. _Hopefully_.  
  
 _Probably just jinxed it_.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swingin Party by Kindness:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQ-9Mgizpf0
> 
> Sorry this is so stupidly late, but between drama with my family and a shitty internet connection, it's been a nightmare getting this done.
> 
> Just as a quick little thing about the fic in general, Sterek is endgame.  
> I promise that this will have a happy sterek-y ending, despite how intensely shitty everything gets in between. And it will get shitty.  
> I've finally hashed out the entire plot and all its details, and while I'll update the tags as I go, I feel I need to give you fair warning that this is going to get graphic and not fun for a while.
> 
> But it will abe journey we'll take and the end result will be well worth all the pain :)
> 
> laters yo


	5. Illuminated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek was sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep as Stiles drove when his cell started ringing. Unsurprisingly, it was Cora. He accepted the call, bring the phone to his ear, expecting her to let him know that Cora had picked Alona up at the Nemeton and that now they we heading back to the loft. Instead, when he brought the receiver up, Cora was sobbing, mumbling something unintelligible about Alona and the loft and fire.
> 
> The latter word froze his blood like ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for warnings

Alona's mind was blanked with panic as she found herself dropped into smoke. Some displaced air pushed at the thick blanket of it, causing a momentary swirling before more swarmed in, clouding her view.  
The moment she realised that she was fixating on the grey smoke obscuring everything like a numbing blanket, its spell was broken, and like surfacing from under water all her senses came online simultaneously.  
  
The overpowering smell of burning flesh made her retch, even as the smoke -which was so thick she could taste it- sent her into a violent coughing fit.  
There was screaming - _blank blank panic blank fear blank-_ the animalistic cries of agony echoing through the silence inside her head, whilst the wretched sounds torn from throats made her skin prickle and her stomach clench.  
  
 _Fire fire she has to get out fire she has to try to save some fire-_  
  
She staggered to her feet, fabric still clenched tightly in her shaking fist and looked around.  
She didn't want to, her throat clenched at the thought, but - _she has to try she has to try to save some-_ she opened her ears, trying to hear where in the cloud the nearest screaming was coming from. She had just identified the higher pitched screaming of a child when another round of hacking coughs started up.  
  
 _Get down get down less smoke near the ground use the shirt mask mask hurry have to try to save some_  
  
As she crawled towards where she thought the child was, she had stop to adjust the material where she'd tied it around her face as her makeshift mask started slipping loose. She retied it viciously - _hurry hurry have to try hurry fire-_ before crawling as fast as she could in the direction where the screaming became louder and the crackles of burning flesh became clearer-  
  
 _blank blank blank_  
  
 _pull it together Mortimer  
  
 blank have to try have to try blank  
  
have to try_  
  
There was a small body writhing and screaming under a pile of flaming debris, part of the roof having caved in, trapping the child. Alona couldn't see what to grab, the tiny legs burnt naked, the skin almost entirely charred away.  
  
 _Have to try have to try-_ she closed one hand around an ankle, and as the heat from the flames started to burn the skin on her face, she pulled the small body back with all her might, a horrifying crack breaking out as the child came loose.  
Alona couldn't tell if it was a little boy or a little girl, the fire having ravaged the toddler so.  
The child wasn't screaming anymore, Alona noted with panic, worried that she had somehow dealt a fatal injury when loosing the young one.  
But there was nothing apparently wrong, no strange angles at the neck, no concave chest.  
  
 _stop wasting time hurry hurry fire hurry_  
  
She picked up the child and cradled the small body to her in a familiar move, barely noticing the texture of the charred flesh against hers as she started looking for an exit.  
  
The screams were growing quieter, one by one dropping off, when she finally found the door. There was a man's body lying before it, half burnt, and the metal of the door was caved -as if someone had thrown themselves against it with great strength.  
  
Alona looked at the man's face for the first time, realising that he was conscious and that his one eye was fixed on her, his mouth -wrecked on one side- working open and closed as if he was trying to remember how to push his voice through to form words.  
  
She swiftly and gently placed the child on the floor, a few paces away from the burning man and the door, and crossing over a fallen beam approached the man with the intention of pulling him out of the flames and freeing the door.  
  
But just as her hand reached out towards him, the ceiling fell in behind her, burying the little one in flaming debris and filling the air with cinders that swirled in the air like fireflies. A heart wrenching moan ripped itself from the man, his good arm flopping out in a reach towards where the small body was no longer visible, but where the crackling grew cacophonous.  
  
Alona heard another crack, seeming reverberate through the entire structure, suddenly aware that the building was weakening around them, a sudden fear that she would not make it out alive seizing her airways even as she tried to grab the man to pull him away.  
  
Her hand was a breath away from his when the ground dropped away beneath her and she was falling all over again.  
  
  
  
  
Derek was sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep as Stiles drove when his cell started ringing. Unsurprisingly, it was Cora. He accepted the call, bring the phone to his ear, expecting her to let him know that Cora had picked Alona up at the Nemeton and that now they we heading back to the loft. Instead, when he brought the receiver up, Cora was sobbing, mumbling something unintelligible about Alona and the loft and fire.  
  
The latter word froze his blood like ice.  
  
"Cora!" Stiles jerked at the harshness of his tone, but Cora quieted enough for him to command gently, "Explain again, but more slowly."  
  
Whilst Cora calmed herself, Derek turned sharply to Stiles.  
  
 "Stop the car."  
  
"Wha- _Dude_ , we're doing the thi-"  
  
"Do it!" Derek roared, he didn't have time for his whiny shit.  
  
"I was about to leave-" Cora was starting again, still audibly crying, but her words were more distinguishable. Derek turned his attention from where Stiles was pulling over, back to his sister.  
"- and - and she just-, and the fire Derek! And I didn't- I wasn't- it's just the smell- and oh my god Derek..." Cora broke off into another round of juddering sobs.  
  
"Cora!" Derek had to make sure, "Are you in danger?"  
  
"N-no I- I don't think so."  
  
Derek turned from the receiver to speak to Stiles.  
  
"I have to go back to the loft."  
  
Family first, everything else later. Cora clearly needed him, both as the brother who understood her trauma and as the alpha who understood her wolf. If Alona was a threat, he would obliterate her before she touched a hair upon a Hale head.  
  
At Stiles' shocked expression he instructed, "Go home, tell Deaton what happened. I'll come to you once I've checked it out."  
  
And with that he slipped out of the car and ran into the night.  
  
  
  
When Derek approached the loft he saw his sister sat on the front step.  
She was no longer crying but as she surged up to meet him he could still see the tear tracks glistening in the light of the street lamps on her face.  
She embraced him strongly, and he returned it gladly, waiting for her to finish scenting him before holding her at arms length and asking, "What happened?"  
  
"I think I may have hurt her," Cora could barely meet his eyes as the dank smell of her shame met him. Derek waited patiently for her to explain, unlike many other wolves his sister did not use violence lightly. Their mother had spotted Cora early for a future den mother, which despite the name was a role filled as often by male wolves as female. A case in point, his father had been their pack's den mother, a gentle wolf by nature, but prone to terrifying heights of violence when the pack was threatened.  
  
"She reappeared just after you left, right where she'd disappeared from."  
  
Cora seemed to gather her resolve as she met his eyes, half determined and half plaintive.  
  
"She smelt like fire Derek, like _the fire_." Her gaze fell from his again as she elaborated, " It was so strong, I couldn't think. It just took me right back- and I- I turned and I think- I think I attacked her."  
  
Derek's stomach dropped.  
  
What if Cora had killed Alona? Was there a body waiting for him upstairs?  
  
He had to make sure Cora was alright and then go check it out.  
  
"Cora are _you_ okay?" at her jerky nod he embraced her again, speaking into her hair as he said, "I'm going to go upstairs and see what's going on."  
  
He felt nod against him, her breath warm where she spoke against his shoulder.  
  
"I can't go back in, it smells- it smells like-"  
She cut away with a heavy sigh as she stepped out of his arms.  
  
"If Alona is okay, please tell her- tell her I'm sorry, and that it wasn't her fault?"  
  
Derek kissed her forehead in lieu of answering, because he wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't.  
He turned into the stairwell leading up to their _not home, but the closest they would get_ , and steeled himself for the barrage of memories he knew would be waiting for him inside.  
  
  
  
Alona clutched at her upper arms, trying to prevent the blood flow from the small wounds where Cora's claws had driven into her flesh when the werewolf had thrown Alona away from her.  
Tears were still coursing down her face when Derek threw open the balcony door opposite her, his stance relaxing slightly when his eyes fell to the tiny punctures in her arms.  
  
 _Is he relieved that Cora got in a blow or relieved that it wasn't worse?_  
  
She would never know because in the next moment Derek's face crumpled and in a wrecked whisper croaked, "Maggie?"  
  
Alona looked at herself, where the remains of _tissue just say it, tissue_ was still stuck to her arms and shirt.  
  
A wracked sob made its way out of her as she babbled, "I tried to save them, I tried to save them but the roof fell in and I couldn't stop it, I tried not to -I really did, but I couldn't and I fell."  
  
She cried harder at the reminder, refreshing the memory and reliving her failure to save them, _to save anyone_ , not even the little girl called Maggie who Derek _knew_.  
  
Her hands were shaking as she tried desperately to rub the residue from her hands and body, but she could see through the blur of tears that she had only succeeded in smearing her own blood up the inside of her arms and across the front of her shirt.  
  
 _Oh god what if it hadn't happened yet? What if Maggie was still a baby somewhere and she had just seen the horrifying fate that lay in stall for the little girl, the little girl and all those screams that -oh god- had probably belonged to her family. That was possible right? If she had jumped back in time when she came to beacon hills_ -  
  
She realised that the words were actually tumbling from her mouth in a stream interrupted by shuddering gasps for breath and violent sobs.  
  
"- and so you can't deny that it's possible I jumped forwards too? Oh god, _oh god_ I have to find them, warn them-"  
  
"-It's too late." Derek said softly, brokenly, as he sank down beside her, his arms coming around quaking shoulders as she startled at the touch of his knee bumping against hers.  
  
"That was 2005, my family, including my cousin Maggie, died in a fire."  
  
 _Oh fuck no_  
  
Alona leant away from him and threw up,  the taste of bile bitter in the back of her throat.  
  
 _Their family_.  
  
She felt guilt consume her at bringing this into their home, reopening old wounds and filling their safe place with smells of burning flesh and dying family.  
  
Her guilt was so potent and deep that she went along in disbelief as Derek pulled her into his lap, pushing her head onto his clavicle and wrapping his arms around her as tears and ash from her hair fell onto his shirt.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." her voice was thick with emotion, though not nearly as thick as Derek's was when he replied.  
  
"It's not your fault."  
He paused, as if weighing whether to continue.  
  
"Don't allow yourself to feel guilty when it wasn't your fault, because it will consume you."  
  
"Let the guilty be eaten alive by their own condemnation, because they deserve it, but don't give it a root in you where it deserves none."  
  
Alona thought it sounded like he was speaking truths hard-worn, but whilst her impulse was to ask him how he knew so much about guilt, she couldn't imagine that he wanted to talk about it now. Besides, Derek had offered up the information about his family, vulnerable-making, heavy information, and she could feel his words settling onto and jostling the scales of power between them. She couldn't bring herself to forcefully tip them by actively seeking out his secrets, especially when she guarded her own so fiercely.  
  
Alona's natural instinct at that was to pull away, allowing distance to form protective barriers once more, but she felt like maybe he needed to hold her, and she definitely needed to be held. So as she had done before, she fisted a hand in his shirt and -unlike before- allowed herself to draw comfort from the strong body around her, and warmth from the heart beating beneath her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illuminated by Hurts:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AogMVSSiLk&src_vid=DXRxaItZGUM&feature=iv&annotation_id=annotation_429280
> 
> Warnings for fire and somewhat graphic depictions of people dying therein.


	6. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could feel wetness building behind her eyes at the visceral rejection, though Derek's previous vehement denial that they were dating and the fact that she had essentially been sexually harassing him meant that Alona shouldn't have been so shocked or hurt by the extent of his reaction. Somehow that night on the balcony and the ensuing days of easy companionship had fooled her into thinking that maybe Derek actually liked her, just a little.
> 
> God she was stupid.

He was dying.  
Seriously, this was it: The End.  
The Stiles Stilinski Train terminates at this station, please remember to take all your belongings with you when leaving the carriage.  
  
It seemed ironic that after years, _years_ of running for his life from supernatural creatures with supernatural speed, that he, Stiles Stilinski, dances with wolves himself, would finally meet his maker in the form of a chubby girl on a treadmill.  
  
When he had rocked up to Derek's loft the day before to find Alona, purple-faced (seriously, anaphylaxis-level purple) and doing stretches, he hadn't thought that inviting the overweight girl to join him at the gym would be anything other than charitable on his part.  
Because as evidence by his ongoing efforts at lacrosse, Stiles was all for self-improvement, and if she wanted to get in shape then Stiles prided himself of being an influence of the positive variety, no matter what his third and fourth and- okay all his teachers ever, had said about him.  
  
His first clue should had come at the enthusiastic and immediate agreement on Alona's part, and if not then at least at the smirk that Derek and Cora had shared, as if they knew something that he didn't. Though in his defence, that was Cora's default expression if she wasn't looking at you as if you had once again astounded her with the depths of your stupidity, and Derek had been much less growly lately -so it was easy to chalk that one up to Derek's face undergoing glower-withdrawal.  
  
He was wrong.  
  
In fact, the first time stiles actually got an inkling that perhaps this wasn't going to go exactly as he had envisioned it (Stiles taking it easy, but Alona struggling, maybe there would even be some tears on her part. She'd want to give up, but then -dramatic chorus swelling- he would deliver a breathtaking amalgamation of the Coach Carter and the Rocky speech, and Alona would push through, conquering every demon and lie that life had thrown at her) was when they arrived at the gym and Alona -having made a beeline for the row of rowing ( _ha! Row of rowing_ ) machines along the furthest wall- pulled up the bottoms of the overly-snug sweats she was wearing and repositioned the elastic above her knees, and exposing the long scar that ran over her right kneecap.  
  
"Dude!" he had exclaimed before he could stop himself, because the scar was _big_ okay?  
  
"What?" her head had snapped up, before following his gaze to the six inches of pinched pink flesh running down the length of her leg.  
  
"Oh yeah that." She shrugged, as if she'd only just remembered it was there, "I got hit by a car once, needed surgery."  
  
" _Dude_."  
  
"Yeah it was pretty intense."  
  
Stiles spared a moment to be concerned that maybe this was a conversation that would be hard for her, car accidents could be pretty traumatic, but she seemed to be pretty calm about the whole thing. All the same, he felt kinda bad and said so.  
  
She shrugged, "Nah, you're alright."  
It took him a moment to realise that she had dismissed his apology and not, in fact, said 'nah, your eye.'  
Freaking accents yo.  
  
"It was a bitch getting back into shape afterwards though."  
  
Stiles manfully resisted any and all facial expressions that would have conveyed his response to her getting 'into shape', because he was here to be the awesome inspiring coach, not the naysayer.  
  
The look she gave him said that perhaps he had kept his face just a little _too_ blank.  
  
Moments later she had settled onto a rowing machine and despite not really being a rowing guy himself, and not wanting to miss his we are marshal moment because he was on a treadmill, Stiles jumped onto another machine beside her.  
It was as Alona reached forwards to the console and started fiddling around there that Stiles got the first feeling that he may have missed something, because as she did so he saw the thick muscles in her calves ripple.  
  
A moment later she was taking off and Stiles scrambled to match his strokes to hers, before realising abruptly that he should have checked his own console as his over-enthusiastic yank almost dislocated his shoulders.  
He was forced to take a second to recalibrate the resistance on his machine, and by the time he finally managed to get going himself, Alona was already starting to sweat and her cheeks were picking up a distinct flush.  
  
And thus it began.  
  
The thing is, it turns out that Alona's face was purple not because she was unfit, but because _holy god_ she went for it.  
Stiles normally only really hit the gym during the winter months, when treadmills were far preferable to perpetually dark streets and frozen rain, so had planned just to go for a gentle jog on one of the running machines and then maybe, _maybe_ , hit some weights -and then only if the weights room wasn't filled with a bunch of circle-jerking body builders with necks and arms as big as his waist.

  
Alona had no such qualms apparently, waltzing merrily past the rows of beefy men who all cast the plump, beet-red girl alternately amused and annoyed glances. See, this was why Stiles hated the weights room. The people in their either laughed at you for not having arms like watermelons, or they sneered at you for so much as daring to enter The Sanctum.  
  
It was kinda like walking into the locker room before lacrosse tryouts.  
  
At least Alona cut a more surprising figure, so most of the room's gazes were fixed on her as she approached a bench near the centre of the room, allowing Stiles to drag his half-dead, sweaty body over to where she was picking up a 45lb dumbbell and starting a set of bicep-curls.  
  
Stiles, who had dropped any and all pretence of physical prowess somewhere between Alona's seventieth sit-up and her fifth mile on the treadmill, simply dropped his sorry ass down on the mat, dignity be damned.  
  
He had just about settled himself comfortably, facing Alona as she exhaled loudly on each upwards curl, when she strained out warningly, "You're gonna cramp."  
  
"Nah I'll be fine-"  
  
 _Ohmygod CRAMP_  
  
His left hamstring seized up, pain arching his body as he flailed the limb pathetically, trying to find a way to sufficiently rub the back of his thigh to ease off the spasming muscle, and only managing to make it worse as the inside of his leg flared up with the pain of a second cramp.  
  
He tumbled backwards, eyes screwed shut against the pain, as he heard her huff in annoyance, before the cramping leg was being lifted up and pushed towards his chest.  
  
That- that actually felt a bit better.  
  
He opened his eyes to see Alona leaning over him, looking remarkably unimpressed as she ordered him to keep his leg straight and pushed his ankle closer to his chest. The pain from his hamstring faded almost immediately as he felt the muscle stretching sorely, and he exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as Alona started rubbing away the cramp in his inner thigh with a firm hand, which was actually becoming a bit too enjoyable now that the pain was leaking away and there was nothing left to distract him from the fact her hand was coming _really_ close to his balls when she did that.  
  
"I'm- uh- I'm good thanks." he managed strain out, and she let go of his leg, fortunately before the situation in his boxers made itself known and became a whole different kind of painful.  
  
"May as well do the other one..."  
  
Stiles' heart stopped a little at that. He knew from accidentally looking at Lydia for a second too long during gym class that the light lacrosse shorts he was wearing did not hide boners well, as in _at all_.  
  
He was slightly reassured though when Alona took a step back and commanded him to straighten his leg and bring his ankle as close to his head as he could.  
He stayed like that for an uncomfortably long time, and he was just about to lower it again when she stepped forwards, placing one hand on his knee and one on his ankle, pushing his leg closer to his chest before holding it in position there. They repeated this process maybe three times before she held the position considerably longer than each previous time.  
  
 _Woah_.  
  
His leg was actually way closer than when he had started, and he was pretty sure that if he really put his mind to it then maybe over a few weeks he could touch his head to his leg. _Awesome_.  
  
When Alona released him and helped him up, he couldn't believe how great his legs felt, all loose and easy (like a well-oiled gate, thank you very much, not like a well-oiled cougar).  
  
Alona cast a glance at the forgotten barbell before turning back to Stiles, her gaze measuring. Stiles didn't even bother to try and curb his squirming as her assessing gaze made him feel fidgety and nervous. Finally, she seemed to reach some sort of conclusion.  
  
"You can help me stretch, then we'll head back."  
  
She said it like she was doing him a favour, he noted as she dropped to the mats and did some sort of twisted starfish thing.  
  
 _Who was he even kidding? She was. She was totally doing him a favour_.  
  
"Your remember what I did, right?" she checked, looking at him through the valley made by her bent legs. Stiles was struck by how vulnerable she looked, expectant. He was a little blindsided actually, by how erotic it felt, her lying on her back with her legs slightly parted, waiting for him.  
  
 _Oh god he was at half-chub._  
  
He flailed a little, nodding frantically as he hoped that all the movement above his waistline would distract her from what was happening below it.  
  
Thank god it worked- _he_ _had to get himself laid goddamit, and put an end to this hair-trigger hell_ \- and she just gave him a weird look at his frenetic shenanigans as she swung up her leg and- _Sweet Mary mother of Jesus._ _  
_  
She was _bendy_.  
  
Eventually she motioned him forward, by which time he had at least managed to pick his jaw from off the floor, and he thought about algebra, dying kittens, and Harrisin a mankini (now there was a solid boner killer for ya) as he placed his hands exactly like she had done and repeated the push-wait pattern.  
By the time they were on the third push-wait, her shin was resting against her forehead.  
  
" _Dude_." Stiles' exhausted brain couldn't contain his awe and his boner at the same time, so he settled on unleashing the awe. God, not that he wanted to _unleash_ his boner. It made his dick sound like some sort of monster that people ran away from, screaming hysterically.  
Though actually come to think of it, that wasn't entirely inaccurate, even if it was only two little girls and how was he supposed to know it was the ladies room if the sign was too high up for little eight-year-old Stiles too see, especially if he was running because listen up boys and girls, eight-year-old bladders were not designed to hold a litre and a half of fanta okay?  
  
"I dance."  
Wha-?  
Oh yeah, crazy bendy.  
  
"What like Ballet?"  
  
Alona scoffed as she rose from the floor.  
  
"No way," They picked up their stuff and made their way to the jeep.  
  
"Mum started me on ballroom when I was six, and then when I was thirteen I went into contemporary and dabbled around a bit in hip-hop and Latin."  
  
As they climbed into the jeep, Stiles helping Alona because the passenger seat-belt needs a little gentle coaxing nowadays.  
  
"I have to tell you," he admitted, pulling out of the parking lot.  
"I'm picturing like a SuckerPunch dance studio, complete with Russian dominatrix and scantily clad girls."  
  
"Oh my god!" Alona was howling with laughter, "That's basically what it was, with more backstabbing and less camaraderie."  
  
"Seriously?" Stiles couldn't believe it, he should have taken up dancing.  
Maybe he would be more graceful if he had.  
  
"Seriously. My dance teacher was Russian and everything. Or well, Ukrainian.  Though obviously that is the hot debate of the day..."  
  
"Huh?" Stiles wasn't a European Current affairs buff or anything, but he liked to think he had a pretty good grasp of what was going on.  
  
"What do you mean?" He glanced away from the road to take in Alona's frown, "Yo whatup?"  
  
Alona gave a heavy exhale.  
  
"I've just remembered that it hasn't happened yet."  
  
Now that piqued his curiosity something awful.  
  
"Basically, it's super complicated, but in my time-"  
  
"-which is six months from now." Stiles cut in.  
Derek had sent him the recording of Alona's story, but they hadn't had a chance to really discuss it yet. He had actually been hoping to do so once they got back to the loft, and his original plan had been to make sure that Alona was exhausted from their gym session and therefore would have a harder time masking any untruths, but we all saw how the first part of that plan went.  
Besides, Stiles only got good vibes from Alona, and with the exception of accusing Derek of murder (in his defence, Derek always messed with Stiles' systems, so he practically had it coming) Stiles maintained that he was an excellent judge of character. And Alona seemed cool, if a little terrifying.  


Which meant that she would fit right in with everyone else he spent time with.

  
  
"Yeah. So things are just a little tense with Russia because they maybe slightly invaded Ukraine a little, but also not really. And like, everyone feels super tense about the whole thing, especially like, the UK and Germany because of the whole cold war thing...eh. It's really complicated, and everyone is kinda waiting to see what will happen, but like, the British armed forces are all waiting on tenterhooks in case something happens. I had to do a shit ton of reading about it for my interview."  
  
 _Dude_ that was intense.  
Another cold war? _Dude_.  
  
"Interview for what?" he asked, mostly because he was still reeling from the knowledge that this political drama was _still going to happen_.  
 _In the future._  
  
"I'm a confirmed cadet for the intelligence corps, but to get that you have to do a bunch of interviews and stuff, so like, you have to be really on top of your current affairs."  
  
"Confirmed Cadet?" Stiles was practically working himself up to a braingasm with all this new information flooding in.  
  
"Uhhhh..." Alona sighed as they turned onto Derek's block, "Basically, normally when you start Sandhurst-" Stiles vaguely remembered that name coming up, he thought maybe to do with the British army? "-you aren't part of any particular corps or whatever, and you do selection in your third term."  
  
"But I wanted to go into the intelligence corps, which is notoriously hard to get into, so what I did was basically work a thing out with them where they confirm that they'll take me in -hence confirmed, and cadet because I'll be an officer cadet during my training at Sandhurst- " _Ha! He was totally right_. "-conditional on a certain standard of performance and behaviour."  
  
So, she was army.  
Stiles felt a little better about her running him into the ground now.  
  
"So what made you pick intelligence?"  
She seemed to think about it for a while, during which time they pulled up onto Derek's driveway (read: Dodgy abandoned parking lot outside dodgy abandoned warehouse).  
Stiles was just putting the jeep into park when she answered.  
  
"Well, I'm fluent in German, Russian and Afrikaans, so intelligence would be the most logical choice-"  
  
"Afrikaans?" Stiles cut in, "Are you like, South African or something?"  
  
"No my parents were Irish." she chuckled ruefully, "When I was eight I kinda fell a little bit in love with Charlize Theron-" Stiles groaned appreciatively -maybe also a little pornographically, to Alona's great amusement, "and that expressed itself as a burning need to be fluent in Afrikaans, just like my darling Charlize."  
  
Stiles chuckled to himself as he put the car into park.  
  
Silence filled the car as the engine settled, and Stiles was on the brink of caving to the crippling need to fill the silence with inane chatter when Alona hesitantly said his name.  
He looked at her, chewing on her lip as her fingers twitched against the door handle, her gaze flitting around the dashboard as she fought with whatever it was she wanted to say before finally meeting his.  
  
Finally she managed to spit it out.  
  
"How well do you know Derek?"  
  
Well now there was a question Stiles asked himself often enough, and failed to answer every time. On the one hand, he felt he knew the dude pretty well; he knew about Kate and the fire, he knew what Derek looked like when he thought he was dying, or when someone he cared about was dying. He could pretty accurately predict most of Derek's reactions, and these days he was practically fluent in Eyebrow; Hale dialect.  
But on the other hand, the vast majority of Stiles' information on Derek was to do with tragedy and/or mortal peril. For example, he had no idea how Derek took his coffee, or if he snored. Jesus he didn't even know what team he supported, and that is like, the first thing you find out about a guy.  
  
He conveyed this general idea to Alona, leaving out Kate and the fire because Stiles wasn't sure even Cora knew about that part of Derek's past.  
  
"But you think he's a good guy right?" Alona's eyes were wide and vulnerable, "I can trust him right?"  
  
"Of course." Stiles surprised himself at his lack of hesitation. It was, after all, a pretty weighty question.  
  
"Derek has sometimes made some stupid mistakes, like when he built a pack out of unstable teenagers, but he always has the best intentions. Even when he gets growly."  
  
Stiles thought for a second.  
  
"Especially when he gets growly." he amended.  
  
Alona seemed to consider this for a moment, then she gave him a curt nod, and hopped out of the car.  
  
  
  
Alona settled into the couch, sipping her tea as Stiles started talking about his research into time travel and mythology.  
  
She felt restless and edgy, despite having tried to burn off the excess energy scratching under her skin at the gym that morning.  
  
Cora was conspicuously absent front the loft, but since neither Derek nor Stiles had mentioned it, Alona assumed that it was fairly normal for the girl to disappear for hours at a time.  
Perhaps Cora was visiting her own spunk trunk. God knew that Alona was dying for a little release -she felt irritable and fidgety after almost a week in Beacon Hills and no opportunity in sight for a little self-loving- and there was no way in hell that she could rub one out anywhere that Derek Hotbod Hale could hear and probably smell her too.  
  
Especially since she was almost 100% sure that she would be thinking about him whilst she did it. She'd undoubtedly think of his large hands and thick fingers as she pinched and rolled her nipples into hard little peaks, the dark hair on the backs of his hands and she ran her own over her hips and into the thatch of hair that marked the mound above her sex. She would definitely think of his cock as she thrust two fingers inside of herself, maybe even three as she tried to achieve the fullness she was craving so badly. She wondered if Derek was cut or not. She loved the noises men made when she toyed at the foreskin with her tongue, loved the idea of Derek's breath shuddering out of him as her lips wrapped around his cock. Then again, she'd never been with a man without one before. Apparently the majority of men in America were circumcised, and she wondered if it made them more sensitive or less. Was it even possible to circumcise werewolves?  
  
"Alona." Derek's strangled voice cut through her thoughts abruptly enough that she startled, sloshing some of her now tepid tea onto her hand and thigh.  
  
As she mouthed off the wetness on her hand, she asked the first thing that popped into her mind, trying desperately to act like she hadn't been thinking about blowing Derek a second before.  
  
"Can werewolves be circumcised?"  
  
 _Oh good one, Mortimer_.  
  
Derek looked horrified, whilst Stiles just looked at Derek with probably a little more interest in his answer than could be considered normal.  
  
Derek was blushing right to his roots as he half-mumbled, "I -I wouldn't know."  
  
 _Well that answers that then_.  
  
Alona resisted the urge to clench her legs together at the thought of Derek's cockhead, flushed and heavy, peaking out from under the hood of his foreskin.  
  
" _Alona_." Derek was actually looking kinda choked now, and Alona couldn't figure out why.  
  
"Stiles, open the windows." Derek was only breathing through his mouth, and his voice was gruff as it huffed out past his parted lips.  
Huh, maybe Stiles had farted and it was assaulting Derek's super-sensitive olfactory receptors. That made sense actually; windows, mouth-breathing. Plus Stiles had accidentally ripped one out that morning, mid sit-up, and _Jeez Louise_ it was pungent.   
  
"What dude?" Stiles exclaimed indignantly, "They're right behind you!"  
  
Actually stiles was right. From where Derek was sitting by the table, all he had to do was get up and turn around in order to open them. He was much closer than Stiles, who was standing on the other side of the table.  
  
" _Stiles_." Derek growled through clenched teeth.  
  
" _Derek_." Stiles mimicked right back.  
  
" _Stiles_."  
  
" _Derek_."  
  
 _Fucking hell they were actual children_.  
  
"Fine I'll do it-" Alona cut in, rising from the couch.  
  
"No!" Derek leapt up and stumbled back from her approach, his hand flying to cover his nose and mouth.  
  
"What?" Alona stopped in her advance, vexed at Derek's dramatic and downright weird behaviour.  
  
"Just- don't-" Derek was still backing away from her, and he had just cleared the table when Alona saw the reason Derek had been so insistent that Stiles be the one to get up.  
  
Derek Hotbod Hale was sporting a _massive_ boner.  
  
His jeans were tight in a way that not only had to be a little painful in his condition, but also did nothing - _sweet, sweet nothing_ \- to hide the fact that  Derek was harder than nails under there.  
Alona could see the outline of his shaft in stunning detail as it pointed down and to the left, the fabric straining around him.  
  
A pained groan from Derek coincided perfectly as Alona felt a pulse of heat travel down her body and settle low in her stomach.  
  
Derek reached out blindly, fumbling with the catch until he managed to throw the window open and promptly stuck his head outside, gasping audibly.  
  
"Woah there buddy," Stiles was laughing obnoxiously, "next time we drive somewhere I promise I'll roll the window down for you."  
  
Derek growled from where his shoulders were still wedged in the window, not showing any inclination to pull his head back into the loft.  
  
"Stiles!"Alona half-whispered, as if Derek couldn't hear them clear as day.  
  
" What the hell was that? Is this normal werewolf-boner behaviour?"  
  
Stiles let out  a wild guffaw.  
  
"Oh my god dude you have a _boner_?" Alona almost felt a little bad for outing Derek and not-so-little-Derek to Stiles, who looked like he'd just found a winning lottery ticket on the pavement.  
  
"It's a perfectly normal reaction to the given stimuli." Derek grumbled, sounding like he was quoting a parent or a teacher as he pulled his head back in and threw open all the windows.  
  
"What stimuli?" Stiles was enjoying this far too much, "Dude we were talking about old man time!"  
  
Something seemed to occur to Stiles then, and he amended, "unless of course you have an age kink in which case, have at it bro, far be it from me to judge your preferences. Let it not be said that Stiles Stilinski is a kink-shamer!"  
  
Derek rolled his eyes so hard that Alona almost got a sympathy headache.  
  
"I do not have an _age kink_." Derek ground out through clenched teeth.  
  
"You!" he pointed an accusing finger right at Alona, jabbing it angrily in her direction.  
  
What?  
  
Alona shot an alarmed look at Stiles, who just shrugged as if to say that he didn't know what she had done either.  
  
She turned back to Derek, who continued, "You need to control your- your- urges!"  
  
Alona's stomach dropped out somewhere between her ankles, a tidal wave of shame crashing over her and burning her skin.  
She couldn't understand how he could possibly have known that she was thinking about him, and she was so mortified she didn't even think she could move. Except maybe to throw up or pass out.  
  
God she needed to get some fresh air before she did either.  
  
 _Fuck was that what Derek was doing?_  
  
She could feel wetness building behind her eyes at the visceral rejection, though Derek's previous vehement denial that they were dating  and the fact that she had essentially been sexually harassing him meant that Alona shouldn't have been so shocked or hurt by the extent of his reaction. Somehow that night on the balcony and the ensuing days of easy companionship had fooled her into thinking that maybe Derek actually liked her, just a little.  
  
 _God she was stupid_.  
  
She had to get out of here before she actually started crying.  
  
"M'sorry," She mumbled as she stumbled her way around Derek towards the balcony, "going for a smoke."  
  
"Alona-" Derek started, but honestly she was about half a second away from crying like the stupid girl she was, and she had faced enough humiliation today.  
  
So she carried on as if she hadn't heard him and slipped through the door, sliding it shut behind her with a jarring clang as she fumbled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long hard drag.  
  
She tried to ignore the indistinguishable sound of voices inside as shame slipped over the brim of her eyelashes and rolled, heavy and wet down her cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shame by Matchbox 20:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s83vjwmKLw4
> 
> Shame is literally the most horrible emotion ever in my opinion, and unfortunately this will definitely not be the last we see of it.
> 
> However! Tune in next time for some lovely Sterek-y goodness, and until then please feel free to leave feedback in the comments section.
> 
> This is all still painfully un-beta-ed.


	7. Calm After The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big amber eyes met hers as she murmured, "Stiles?"
> 
> "Oh god I've missed you-" he broke off, his voice sounding fragile as her pulled her into another embrace.
> 
> "Uhhhhhhhh..."
> 
> "Oh yeah sorry," he smiled, pulling away, "We're not that close yet, where you've come from."
> 
> "Yet?"
> 
> He shot her an impish grin.
> 
> "Yet."

Alona had just about managed to smoke her way through three cigarettes and into chattering teeth when she finally mustered the courage to go back inside and face the music.  
  
She slid open the door, the rusty metal screeching its resistance as she was hit by a blast of warm air from within the building.  
Once she had stepped through she avoided the gazes from the table as she purposefully turned and dragged the heavy door shut once again, her grip tightening reflexively on the handle as she prayed that Derek would accept her apology and not kick her out for what she had done.  
  
She finally decided to just man up, and begged his forgiveness, explaining that she would never have thought of him in such a manner and forced herself upon him in that way had she known that he would be forced to witness her vulgar thoughts. Unfortunately, her courage didn't extend so far as to allow her to do this facing him or even with her eyes open, so the churning in her gut only worsened as the painful silence that had followed her heartfelt apology grew.  
  
Twin gazes burned her back until she could take no more and forced herself to open her eyes and chance a glance at Derek.  
  
Who looked...dumbfounded.  
  
His eyebrows kept twitching together as if they were trying to say something but kept stopping mid-sentence. Was it possible that he had not realised the severity of what she had done until she had just spelled it out, thus incriminating herself, and only reacted to the repulsion of his role in her fantasies? The notion seemed over-optimistic. Forcing obscene remarks on someone was sexual harassment at the very least, what to say of images involving that person? She told him this, despite that fact that it probably wasn't helping her case.  
  
Stiles' loud guffaw in the ensuing silence was so sudden and unexpected that Alona startled, taking a step back in a bid not to lose her balance.  
But her sole didn't land on hard flooring as she had expected, and her stomach swooped wildly as she looked down to see that she was standing on lush, green grass, the spiky tips of the vibrant blades poking through her socks  to tickle between her toes as she took a second stumbling step backwards.  
  
Looking up from her feet, she started taking in her surroundings and saw that she was standing in what was clearly somebody's garden, the well kept lawn and complete absence of weeds on the gravel path attesting to an owner who took great care with the space, though a large oak tree blocked her view of where the house probably lay, though she was willing to wager that any flowerbeds or hedges would show a similar level of devotion.  
  
It was a beautiful tree, standing at east fifteen feet tall, the lush foliage catching the early-evening sunlight so that they glinted, golden, as the gentle breeze ruffled the leaves and brought the warm earthy smell of greenery and sun-baked bricks.  
The path she had noted previously ran a long trail from the back of the green, where she could just about make out the wooden panelling of a tree house -complete with tire swing and crude _keep out_ sign- curving around and out of sight behind the thick, gnarly trunk of the towering oak.

The scene before her was so peaceful, with the gentle hushing of the wind overlapping the chirping of crickets, that Alona's budding theory about being thrust into increasingly dangerous situations took a bit of a knock.  
  
Behind the birdsong she could hear distant singing, the loud and unfettered sound of someone who thought they were alone, drawing ever closer until Alona could hear the crunching of foot steps on the gravel path as the man -and it was definitely a man, despite his warbling rendition of _California girls_ \- approached.  
  
Alona stood rooted to the spot, unable to hide in the open space, as the man came around the bend in the path -his eyes squeezed shut as he crooned enthusiastically into the nozzle of a garden hose.  
  
The sunlight glinted off the polished wedding band on his finger, forcing her to blink back the watering of her eyes as the sudden silence told her that the man had stopped in his serenade as well as his path.  
  
"Nala?"  
  
Alona's head whipped up at that.  
She hadn't been called Nala in a long time, and with good reason. There were very few people she had ever been close enough to allow them to call her by that nickname, and none of them were around anymore.  
  
With her vision cleared she finally looked at the man's face, searching for some resemblance to someone who would now that name and use it freely. She looked closely, trying to see likeness that time had perhaps rubbed out. But the question of whether she had by chance moved forward or backwards a decade or so answered itself easily enough when she started to prod at it with reasoning. Her brothers were still incarcerated, and her father had never had a beard like that. Timothy had such red hair that there was no conceivable  way that he could grow such a dark beard.

  
As the silence stretched she grew ever more sure that she had never met this man before, definitely never accidentally shared too much of herself during a one night stand after alcohol made her lips looser and made sharing about her past seem less daunting. No, she would definitely have remembered this man. His shoulders were broad and his forearms, where they emerged from an obnoxiously pink plaid shirt, were corded with muscle and tanned a golden brown.  
  
Her gaze rose to his face, but nothing about his scruff or his hair, which though dark was streaked with silver at his temples, caused any sparks of recognition  to flare to life in her mind.  
  
It seemed the man couldn't wait any longer for her to remember him from somewhere as he lunged toward her, ignoring her alarmed stumble backwards, and threw his arms around her in a crushing hug.  
  
She remained stiff and uncomfortable in his arms ( _she may have been good in bed but it definitely didn't merit this sort of greeting_ ) until the man eventually stepped back with a self-deprecating chuckle.  
  
Something about the way he stood; one hand cocked on his hip, the other hastily brushing his eyes, suddenly clicked in her mind.  
  
Big amber eyes met hers as she murmured, "Stiles?"  
  
"Oh god I've missed you-" he broke off, his voice sounding fragile as her pulled her into another embrace.  
  
"Uhhhhhhhh..."  
  
"Oh yeah sorry," he smiled, pulling away, "We're not that close yet, where you've come from."  
  
" _Yet?_ "  
  
He shot her an impish grin.  
  
"Yet."  
  
Alona studied his face, seeing the sunny joy of his beaming smile, but unable to help noticing the bittersweet turn of his eyes as he gazed steadily at her.  
  
"I went back eventually didn't I?"  
  
The sadness in his eyes would have been answer enough, but he replied anyways.  
  
"Yeah you did..."  
  
They seemed to be at a lull, neither sure what to say next when a girl's voice carried over.  
  
"Dad! I'm going for a run!" Stiles whipped around at that, taking a step towards  the direction the voice was coming from.  
  
"Ray! No wait- There's someone I want you to meet-"  
  
"I'll be back later! I have my phone!" the voice carried on over him, oblivious.  
  
Stiles shook his head, rubbing his face.  
  
"Teenagers." he smiled ruefully, "She probably had her music blaring again."  
  
Alona's gaze turned measuring.  
  
"Meet huh?" she watched for his reaction, "So I didn't find a way to stay in touch?"  
  
She almost regretted the question as she saw sadness wash over his face.  
  
"Well, you sent a few letters but, uhh" he seemed to be struggling for words, looking everywhere but at her,  and Alona got the impression that he was trying to avoid mentioning something.  
  
"Something happened, didn't it?"  
The question brought back that same sadness in his eyes.  
  
He just nodded in response, as if he couldn't trust himself not to let slip whatever he was hiding.  
  
"But you can't tell me what it is?" Alona felt like she was talking to an upset child, leading them with easy questions.  
  
She really, _really_ wanted to know what he was hiding.  
  
"But you've already told me about other things that will happen," she pointed out, her tone soothing as she stepped closer to him, gently touching his arm, "So it can't be that you're worried about ripping the fabric of space and time or messing with the future or some shit like that..."  
  
Stiles looked pained.  
  
"It's not that I _can't_ tell you..." he led off, seeming unsure as he settled down cross -legged on the grass. Alona joined him as he continued, "We found out, with you, that we couldn't change the future. Things happened the same way despite anything we did to try to change it."  
  
The way he spoke made it sound like there was something they had tried more than once to change, had maybe even gone to great lengths to bring about a different outcome, and failed.  
  
"Some things... I don't think it's worth knowing they're coming." his gaze came up from where he had been picking at blades of grass to look into her eyes.  
  
"Just try to enjoy every moment," his gaze was still and sincere,  a far cry from the guffawing boy she knew, "and then take the future as it comes."  
  
  
  
They spoke for hours, Stiles telling her precious little about his life ("I'm sorry, I just _can't._ ") but more than willing to answer her many, many questions about Werewolves and Beacon Hills and _Derek_.  
If anything, he seemed to take great enjoyment in telling her more about the heavy-browed alpha, though he grew more sombre when the conversation turned to dying pack-mates, fire and _Kate_.  
  
It was so raw and ugly, the manipulation and betrayal he had suffered at the hands of that bitch, that Alona wanted to cry and gather a young Derek, guilt-ridden and grieving, into her arms. Tell him it wasn't his fault.  
  
The realisation that _this_ was the fire she had witnessed, just over a week ago now, the smell and memory that she had dragged back up into his and Cora's home, made her heart clench and her stomach roll.  
  
"I'm not sure if I should be hearing this from you..." she said,  having known first hand how it felt to have had your skeletons plucked out of the closet, but Stiles simply waved her away.  
  
"It's fine, Derek once actually thanked me for telling you."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"No." his grin was broad and unapologetic, "But he didn't throw me against anything, and in Derek-speak that's practically admitting to a life time indebted."  
  
Alona laughed so hard that she snorted, a huge ungainly snort that would have sent her etiquette mistress to an (not so) early grave had the kindly but stern woman heard it.  
  
Stiles, however, simply watched and chuckled along gently with her.  
  
"I'm glad you found that funny, the last time I said that to you I got a punch for my troubles." he shook his head fondly, "But then again we were sparring, so I kinda sorta had it coming for not paying attention anyway."  
  
Alona was shocked. She was not a spar-er, and she definitely wouldn't whack someone when they were unsuspecting and couldn't block it, and she told stiles so.  
  
He scoffed at that.  
  
"That's still a long time from where you are now, I think." he seemed to contemplate something, "Where did you come from? What time?"  
  
 _Awwwh fuck_.  
In the course of the conversation with Stiles, Alona had managed to almost completely forget the disaster she'd left in Beacon Hills.  
  
"Well. You see." she stalled, trying to find a delicate way to explain the situation, "I think there may be some full body contact with a wall awaiting me in Beacon Hills-"  
  
"Oh my god!" he crowed, delighted, "Is this that time that you thought you had molested him with your brain?" A manic and frankly sadistic joy sparkled in his eyes.  
  
"You say that like that isn't exactly what I did." she grumbled, only serving to send Stiles into a round of howling laughter, whilst she looked on, thoroughly perturbed.  
  
"Oh my god," he sang, drawing out the _god_ on a long exhale as he finally seemed to wind down, "Nala, I promise you, you did not molest Derek _with your brain."_  
  
Every time he said it it just sounded stupider.  
  
He cut her off when she began to protest.  
  
"No, Nala, werewolves can't read minds."  
  
He sounded so sure, but even he had seen Derek's reaction, so how could he say that with such absolute certainty? Why else would Derek have responded with the urges comment if he hadn't know exactly what it was she was thinking about?  
  
"But he is so angry-"  
  
"No he isn't," Stiles cut in again, and frankly Alona was starting to get fucked off at all the interruptions, "that was just Derek throwing a grump because he wants to bone you so bad, but in true Sourwolf fashion he's being a martyr about it, instead of just fucking you and making you both happy."  
  
"Well what if I don't want to bone him?" she sniped petulantly.  
  
Stiles threw her a breath-taking _bitch please_ look.  
  
"Okay first of all, you brain-molested him,"  
"-I did not!"  
"and second of all," he continued, completely ignoring her objection, " _Derek Hale_."  
  
He said Derek's name like that was all the evidence required, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, which to be fair it kinda was.  
  
"But that still doesn't explain why he was having a go at me," Alona was aware that she had bypassed petulant and was firmly within whining now, "All I did was sit on the couch and drink my tea."  
  
"No," Stiles said, as if he was talking to an idiot, which maybe he was, a little bit.  
  
"You were sitting on the couch, spewing your sexy-fun-times-please aroma all over the place for Derek's delicate wolfie nose to pick up and start a battle with his self-flagellation."  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
"So Derek doesn't know I want to bone him?"  
 _God Nala,_ bone? _Really?_  
  
Stiles smirked at her like he knew exactly how much it irked her that she was picking up his -outright detestable- vocabulary.  
  
"Well, until you apologised for _brain-molesting_ -"  
  
"-Oh my god stop saying it!"  
  
"-him, I would say that no, he didn't."  
  
Alona groaned and threw her head into her hands.  
 _What a nightmare_.  
  
  
Eventually, Stiles went into the house to fetch them some hot drinks, as the sun had started to set by this point and it was actually getting kinda chilly.  
When Alona had started to get up to follow him, he had stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, apologetically reminding her, "Don't wanna give the game away."  
  
He gave her a sad smile, which by the time he had returned with two steaming mugs and a navy blue blanket had developed into a fully-fledged frown.  
  
"Ray isn't back yet," he explained when he caught her furrowed brow, handing her a mug and laying out the blanket, "I think she's involved with Micah Parrish, though she hasn't told me anything yet. But I have eyes."  
  
Which he illustrated by waving his gaze back and forth, somehow managing to look both demented and incredibly shifty at the same time.  
  
"You going to clean your guns in front of him, papa bear?" Alona laughed.  
  
"If only," stiles sighed, mock morose, "his mom's the sheriff, so that sort of thing doesn't get to him like all the other bad boys around here -not that Beacon Hills is exactly teeming Derek Hale-types these days."  
  
Nala chuckled along with him, though she found herself oddly stirred to see the hyper active teenage boy she knew so much older. She'd seen the way his appearance had matured from the moment she recognised him, but seeing him talk about his daughter and scaring off would-be suitors brought home how different he was on the inside too. He seemed wise, like he had learned far more than most during his time, and instead of becoming jaded or cynical, or even more flighty and anxious, there was a focused stillness about him. If Alona hadn't thought it so unlikely, she would have said that he seemed peaceful, despite the sadness that coloured his eyes every now and then when he looked at her too long.  
  
 _I am going to visit him_ , she thought, _I swear I won't lose touch_.  
  
She was just starting to wonder what on earth could have happened to end their friendship or made it impossible for her to stay in touch, when Stiles -seemingly noticing the direction her thoughts were taking- brought her out of her reverie.  
  
"Okay, right, you see, so, -" Alona raised her eyebrows at him. For someone who was using their serious-business voice, he sure was _not saying anything_.  
  
"-shut up okay-"  
  
"I didn't say anything!" she protested.  
  
"You have a very loquacious face." he proclaimed prissily.  
  
"Now listen up, you wanna hear this shit before I send you back-"  
  
"Dude you can send me back?" she exclaimed, astounded at this new developement.  
  
Stiles flailed, in a way that was so familiar he almost seemed seventeen again.  
  
"Motherfucker just _listen_ -"  
  
"Well in my defence she was very young to be bearing children-"  
  
Stiles shoved her hard enough to send her toppling into the blanket.  
They were both chuckling by the time she righted herself, until Stiles cleared his throat and spoke.  
  
"Seriously though, it's getting late and I know that this is the visit where I tell you a whole plethora of important shit, so I don't wanna miss anything before I send you back from whence you came."  
  
"Mate about the sending back-"  
  
His hand flew up, stopping her, his eyes widening as he shook his head.  
  
Alona was struck suddenly by how young she was compared to this man, how immature she felt. She had found herself looking down on her Stiles, not necessarily in a bad way but more in that she kinda wanted to take him under her wing. She was clearly not the wing-bearer in this situation. She was the wing-ee.  
  
So she shut up and listened.  
  
"I am going to tell you only what I know for a fact you learned today -which I know is circular logic but it's impossible to make sense of and that way lies migraines- and the rest you'll have to figure out as you go."  
  
Alona nodded to show her assent.  
  
"Okay, to my knowledge this is the only journey you make to the future, excluding your return to your own time. I have a few few theories why you jumped forwards this one time instead of backwards, but I can't share them with you."  
  
Alona manfully resisted the urge to huff at even more withheld information, but out of respect held her tongue as he continued.  
  
"We figured out that you only crossed from one time to another when you felt threatened or startled, though Deaton did find a way to block it so that you weren't crossing every time someone made you jump.  
  
"In terms of what you are and why you can do it, I'm almost 100% sure that you are simply a human spark, like me. That is in and of itself not any explanation for why you can cross like you do, I'm hella sure I can't, but the theory that made the most sense was that something happened when you were younger during which you managed to summon enough will power which, combined with the spark as a magical ignition, was enough to push you into another time and place. Now every time you experience some of those emotions, triggering your fight-or-flight response, you just fly a little further than anyone else."  
  
Alona was making confused-sounding noises. It was a lot to take in, sure, but her mind kept sticking on the notion of a single triggering event causing her first jump. The key issue being that _there was no triggering event_ , her early years were fully devoid of any trauma outside of being forced to take ballroom lessons, as well as the fact that she was completely and utterly sure that she had never once jumped before a week ago. So this whole PTSD-fight-or-flight bullshit was clearly just off the mark. Though to be fair to Stiles, he had said that it was just a theory.  
  
She didn't voice any of this, opting instead to nod and thank him for sharing with her.  
He seemed to take this as the end to their visit, pulling her up to stand with him. He thrust his empty mug in front of her face.  
  
"Spit." he ordered.  
  
"Stiles," Alona scoffed, "Young ladies do _not_ -"  
  
"Just spit."  
  
Alona huffed ( _god she was one missed eyebrow appointment away from turning into Derek, King Huffy-Huff himself_ ) and reluctantly dribbled a little saliva into the porcelain.  
  
"What?" she grumped at Stiles' judgey smirk, "It's not like I get any practice at gobbling into the crockery."  
  
Stiles just rolled his eyes at her, pulling out a pocket knife and cutting out a small square of grass, before lifting it out and shaking some of the soil out of the roots and into the cup.  
  
"I hope you appreciate what a sacrifice I'm making here." he teased, "This garden is my baby."  
  
"I thought the jeep was your baby?" Alona retorted.  
  
"And long may she rest in peace." Stiles said, gazing into the middle distance and whipping an imaginary tear from his eye.  
  
"No!" Alona exclaimed with mock horror, " Not baby!"  
  
"Alas!" he wailed, "Her time came!"  
  
Nala made sympathetic noises as Stiles stirred the mixture into a paste with one, long finger. Though that quickly turned to sounds of disgust when he raised a glob of the stuff up to her face, causing her too rear back from the mucky digit.  
  
"It's just yours!" Stiles pointed out before approaching again, albeit more slowly, resuming his efficient speed when she grumbled but remained still under the slimy sensation of the mud being smeared on her forehead.  
  
She couldn't distinguish the pattern, there were just too many different strokes, but stiles stopped her when she reached out to touch it.  
  
"Okay before it dries," he pulled her into his arms, sighing softly when she returned the embrace, until eventually he pulled back.  
  
"What exactly were you thinking of before you jumped?"  
  
"Well-" Nala didn't have time to answer before Stiles reached out and swiped a wet finger across the cooling image on her head.  
  
For the first time, Alona was able to watch as, in the blink of an eye, stiles fell away from her, and like flicking through the pages of a book -words in blurred and indistinguishable as they rushed past- she lurched through images and moments, before stopping abruptly.  
  
Alona felt breathless as she watched the back of her own head wink out of existence, as Stiles' laughter-young and uncontrolled once more- cut off with a choked garble, and Derek's eyes widen dramatically.  
  
A moment of silence descended as they all tried to process what had just happened. Alona was the first to break it, having regained her composure, and wheeled on Derek, jabbing her finger at his well-defined chest as she stalked towards him.  
  
"You!"  
  
Derek's gaze flicked to Stiles' in alarm, who only shrugged in response.  
  
"Control your own fucking urges!"  
  
With that, she swiped a pen and paper off the table beside them and marched off in the direction of the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calm After The Storm by The Common Linnets:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwdJ5NkeyYU
> 
> Yeah. I put a Eurovision song as the tittle. Whatchoo gonna do about it?
> 
> MATE. You would not believe what a nightmare writing this chapter has been. I rewrote it almost a million times, revealing more, revealing less, having Nala actually meet Ray... It's been a mission and half. But here it is!
> 
> I feel that things have been fairly mythologically sparse until now, but let me tell you it is all about to kick off. The monsters are about to come crawling out of the woodwork my friends, and impending doom is going to be thing.
> 
> Comments and critiques are all welcome :)
> 
> Also, majorly lacking in Beta. So this is all on me.
> 
> Laters,  
> B  
> x


	8. Fireproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a glance of apology in Alison's direction, Alona dropped the friendliness from her face like a cloak thrown off her shoulders.
> 
> "Do not try to play family roulette with me, Argent." she spat, her tone oozing vitriol, "Your family name is drenched far more innocent blood than mine could ever be."

Alona tipped her head back, letting the hot water of the shower sluice over the curves of her shoulders as she ran her hands through the short strands of her hair, watching as the suds ran down her body and into the drain.  
  
She would have liked to stand under the delicious spray for hours, letting the water beat out her tension and the steam cleanse her lungs, but by the time she had explained the jump to Derek and Stiles -missing out Stiles' expose on Derek's life because it made her feel uncomfortable admitting to Derek that she knew about Kate and glossing over the 'triggering event' bullshit because something about the theory just made her twitchy- it was already hedging one am. Stiles had left by two, drawing of the symbol in hand and promises to research on his tongue, leaving Alona and Derek to get ready for bed -or in Alona's case, couch- in thought-heavy silence.  
  
She emerged from the shower, loose-limbed and flushed, and approached the couch to change into her pyjamas.  
She had taken to just changing there in the living room, because at this point there was little of her they hadn't seen before, with Derek usually making himself conspicuously scarce for the duration. However, for once, Derek simply leaned against the armrest as she pulled on the green tank over her towel, losing the latter once she pulled on a pair of mid length leggings that she had been wearing to sleep instead of the heat-stroke inducing trackies.  
  
Derek's hovering was distracting to the point of irritation, but she limited herself to side-eyeing him as she picked up the sleeping bag from where it was stashed beneath the couch. It wasn't until she had finished rolling it out and had resorted to puttering around with her clothes in order to give him the space he needed to just _oh my god spit it out already_.  
  
"So..." he said, overly casual, as she rearranged her clothes for the third time, this time by colour.  
  
"Stiles told you all about me huh?"  
  
Alona rolled her eyes internally, so that's what this was about.  
  
"Yeah, a whole bunch of stuff that I could have done with hearing from you first." She straightened with a frown.  
  
His face drained of colour, his eyes darting towards the balcony and then the front door, and Alona realised that he was ashamed and scared of talking about his past with Kate, or perhaps his history with the teenagers of Beacon Hills, which was a feeling she could really relate to, even if the subject matter itself was a little out there. She immediately felt bad and more than a little hypocritical for putting him in the uncomfortable position of talking about things he'd clearly rather not relive, and scrambled to save the situation.  
  
"Yeah you should look nervous!" she said with gusto, trying to find an out, " Why didn't you tell me you could all but smell my every thought?"  
  
"I can hardly-" he scoffed in defence, though he did a poor job of masking the relief loosening his posture.  
  
"No, no, no," she cut in, coming to stand in front of him in mock confrontation, " Don't think you can go pulling the wool in front of my eyes again, mister."  
  
Derek just smirked up at her, raising his eyebrows in challenge, spreading arms in  a _well go on then_ gesture.  
  
"Can you smell...anger?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Frustration?"  
  
His eyes fixed on a spot just above her shoulder. _Bingo_. He totally couldn't.  
  
"No, actually." he murmured absently.  
  
In the softness of his voice Alona forgot about teasing him for his tragic lack of olfactory prowess, as she suddenly became aware of how close they were standing.  
  
Her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes were drawn to his lips, parted and soft-looking, and her every sense grew hyper-aware as she felt a droplet of water from her wet hair fall onto her collar bone. Derek's gaze was like fire tracing her skin when his eyes snapped to the fat drop, following its path as the wetness rolled down her chest and into the valley between her breasts.  
  
It was as if the temperature in the air between them had suddenly skyrocketed and plummeted at the same time.  
  
"Desire?" She swallowed. It was barely a whisper between them, but the word may as well have been a gunshot in the heady silence.  
  
Alona found herself leaning further into the electrified air between their bodies,  her own pulse roaring in her ears as she waited on a precipice for his answer, ready to tumble head long over the edge and plunge into the waters below.  
  
"Of course." it was a breath, rushing like fire over the sensitive skin of her lips, matching the burning she saw in his gaze when their eyes met.  
  
When his lips closed over hers a bolt of lightning struck her to the core, electricity singing along her veins as his soft lips dragged deliciously at the moist seem of her mouth.  
  
She opened her mouth to his without thought or hesitation, and if she had thought the space between their bodies had been charged, then the warm air between their waiting tongues was a thunderstorm in and of itself, and she barely managed to suppress a whimper when his tongue finally touched hers. The pleasure of the warm, wet caress brought her whole body alive, her very blood thrumming with energy as she ran the tip of her tongue over the blunt line of his teeth, and was rewarded with soft suction on her upper lip, causing a shiver of sweet pleasure to run down her spine.  
  
He tasted everything and nothing like she had thought he would, and when she dug her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, it was just as soft and just as prickly as she could have imagined it being.  
His big hands moved to her hips, squeezing gently with every glide of her tongue against his, seeping heat through the material of her tank and branding his palm prints into her goose-bumped skin.  
  
He tugged her sharply forwards,  and a coiled heat flashed low and bright inside her at the display of dominance.  
  
So she sucked his lip into her mouth, licking across the soft swell before biting down in retaliation, making his fingertips press hungrily into the fleshy swell of her hips even as he pulled away with a groan that sounded equal parts aroused and pained.  
  
"Alona-" he started. His lips were spit-slick and his pupils were utterly blown, but despite his desire roughened voice she knew from the tightness around his eyes what was coming next.  
  
"This was a mistake."  
  
Her heart broke a little at the confirmation.  
  
She stepped back, hating the way every thought and feeling showed itself on her face as she tried to mask her hurt and pull herself together as quickly as possible under his razing gaze.  
  
"You're right, it was." she tried to make her voice firm, perhaps flinty or apologetic, as if she wanted to let him down easy, as if there wasn't a fist lodged somewhere in her throat, making her chest ache and her head heavy with tears she refused to allow to surface.  
  
But the pity in his gaze made it clear that he didn't buy it, because _fucking werewolves_.  
  
Unable to put up a dignified front in the face of chemo signals and sensitive noses, Alona beat a hasty retreat.  
  
"It's not one I intend to repeat."  
  
His eyes were big and sad, and the unguarded sympathy in the beautiful -still so beautiful- lines in his face was like a knife to her sternum. God she hated him, hated him so fiercely in that second, for giving her this and then snatching it away. For letting her know exactly what it would be like, but then denying her. And then he had the _nerve_ to look sorry about it whilst she stood there with ice aching in her chest.  
  
"Nala-" he started but she cut him off with a hiss.  
  
"You do not get to call me that!" she tried to gain a reign on her wounded rage.  
  
"That name is only for people who I can love and trust."  
  
The flinch Derek gave at her seething reply went some way to helping her regain her composure.  
  
"Okay." He whispered so softly Alona wanted to punch him. Punch him for not insisting that she could trust him, hate him for not begging that she love him because motherfucker she was half way to it already.  
  
 _Ladies do not lose their temper, they master poise and dignity_.  
  
Alona repeated the phrase three times before she felt the icy calm settle over her.  
  
She pulled it around her like a cloak, feeling the old armour of propriety and politeness supporting her as her spine straightened and her face settled into a well-practiced expression of pleasant detachment.  
  
"Thank-you for your help this evening, Derek." she was almost pleased to note that her tone was mild and devoid of strain, even though she was talking through a knot of what felt painfully close to heartbreak. It couldn't be heartbreak though, she wouldn't let it be.  
  
"I apologise for any rudeness on my part."  
She was of course just apologising for her behaviour earlier in the evening, but if he thought she was apologising for the kiss then that wasn't an issue either.  
  
She nodded a head at his dumbfounded expression.  
  
"Goodnight Derek."  
  
  
She climbed into her sleeping bag calmly but swiftly and, instead of facing the back of the couch as she usually did, lay on her back, her eyes closed gently and her relaxed face the picture of peaceful resting.  
  
She felt Derek's gaze like an anvil on her chest and on her heart, but she had learned long ago that politeness could be the sharpest blade in your arsenal, should you wield it properly, and so she clung to the familiar apathetic aloofness  of ladylike gentility even as - _desperately as_ \- she felt her heart tumble into yearning for the man walking away from her.  
  
  
  
The instant the alarm went off, Derek was up and out of bed like a shot, dragging a bleary and bumbling Alona off the couch and shoving her into a shadow created by a book case near the door. He looked into her eyes to make sure that she was listening before pressing his cell phone into her hand.  
  
"As soon as you get an opening you run." His words were hushed and urgent, not waiting for the shaky wide-eyed nod she gave before he continued, "You run and when you are in a public space, you take my cell-" he grabbed and shook the hand in which she was clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grip, "- and you call Stiles. You tell him there's trouble at the loft. Okay?"  
  
He didn't have time to hear a reply before he heard running feet tearing up the iron staircase leading up the loft, and he barely managed to press a last urgent kiss against Nala's forehead before the slightest scent of Cora's blood seeped through the crack under the door.  
  
He tore himself away from the shaking girl and rushed to stand in front of the large windows, hoping to draw the attacker farther in so that the girl had a better chance of escape if Derek couldn't hold them off once they realised Alona's location.  
  
The door was thrown open with a clang as the attacker hurtled towards him, and Derek didn't even notice the girl disappearing through the door as he was struck by a near wall of the scent of Cora's blood.  
  
Alpha fury tore through him as the creature, drenched in his baby sister's blood -too much of it even for a wolf to survive-, barrelled into his middle and didn't even attempt to dodge the claws he dug into its shoulder.  
  
Cora's pained cry, though muffled, snapped through Derek's blood rage like a bucket of ice water. His claws retracted immediately and his hands wasted not even a second before they were roaming Cora's skin, searching fruitlessly for the injury which had caused the blood which covered her from head to foot, even as his little sister clung to him and shivered, huge tremors wracking her smaller body.  
  
After realising that whatever injury she had had was healed by now, and deciding that perhaps there just appeared to be more blood than there actually was, he grasped his sister's face. When her teary eyes finally met his, he flashed alpha red, his wolf projecting that familiar flare of _alpha protector alpha pack alpha_ that reassured her wolf until she  answered with her own _alpha safe alpha home alpha_.  
  
His breath choked a little at the clear tracks her tears had run in her otherwise blood-coated face, and he felt guilt and rage swell up within him for allowing this to happen at the _pat pat pat_ of the crimson dripping from the ends of her hair onto the floorboards below.  
Her lower lip trembled as she noticed the dripping, and Derek pulled her in for another embrace as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.  
  
He held her as she trembled and cried, grateful that he only slept in his boxer-briefs as the combination of blood, snot and tears would have done a number on any clothing that he would have been wearing. When he shared this with Cora, she huffed a wet laugh into his now-slimy chest. It made a rush of pride run through his wolf, that he could look after his beta's feelings as well as safety. It was an unfamiliar feeling.  
  
When she had finally ceased shivering, Derek pulled her back but didn't remove his hands where they were holding her upper arms, choosing instead to rub soothing circles against the flesh there, though she was sticky with drying blood.  
  
"What happened?" his voice was as gentle as he could make it, the protective instinct still surging through him making it simultaneously easier and harder to keep his tone soft.  
  
"I- I-" she stammered before she choked, hands flying to her throat as she hacked and coughed.  
  
Derek panicked, at a loss for what he should do, even as she doubled over and struck her chest with a fist. Had she been poisoned? Or was this a magical curse? What if there were hunters again? Or another Darach?  
In the chaos of his mind Derek didn't notice the familiar scent of Alona entering with Scott and Stiles, turning instead to roar at the perceived threat as Cora finally, _finally_ , stopped choking behind him. Silence descended on the loft in the wake of his roar, broken only by the wet splat of Cora spitting something out.  
  
"Dude," Stiles mumbled, paling significantly at Cora's blood-soaked form kneeling behind Derek.  
  
"What _happened_?"  
  
  
  
  
Derek rolled his eyes in response even though, hello, _totally reasonable question dude_.  
  
"Derek?" Alona's voice only wavered slightly as she took a cautious step towards him.  
  
"Derek did you attack Cora?"  
  
Her tone was placating and careful, as if she thought he might fly off the rails at any point. Which was fair because Cora was fucking _marinated_ in blood, and there was a near incriminating amount of it on Derek's chest and hands.  
  
"Of course not!" his indignation, though apparent, was made moot when Scott shrieked in alarm.  
  
"You're lying!"  
  
Alona actually stumbled back a step at that, and Stiles barely resisted doing the same.  
  
Derek's eyes were bouncing nervously between them, skittering between Scott and  
Stiles before flickering nervously to glance at Alona before returning to them. If Stiles didn't know better he'd say that the Alpha was looking to Alona for back up, and something about the observation niggled at him, but Stiles had thoroughly researched werewolf behaviour -as a guy's wont to do when his best bro keeps trying to use him as a chew toy and the local murder suspect keeps threatening serious bodily harm- and aside from a truly alarming volume of porn (which he would deny with his last breath ever jerking off to) he had turned up next to no information about Alpha interactions with humans outside the pack. Sure, he'd found some stuff about emissaries and the vast etiquette regarding the  treatment of humans belonging to an allied pack. But there was just about nothing on relationships with human outsiders.  
This was probably because Ye Olde Alpha did not hang out with people outside Ye Olde Pack.  
  
Which kinda made sense if you were trying to keep it hush-hush that your four-year-old grew fangs and sideburns with every temper tantrum.  
  
"It was an accident."  
  
Stiles was jerked back to the present and managed to flail emphatically at Cora's, well, everything, just as Scott piped up.  
  
"So why did you lie?"  
"That is a whole lot of blood for _whoops my hand slipped_ -"  
  
"This is not the key issue here!" Alona thundered, stunning everyone.  
  
She exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose.  
  
"I'm really fucking tired and this has been the longest fucking day-" Stiles wondered what the cursory glare she threw Derek was for, they'd all but kissed and made up when he had left... "-so can we just talk about this calmly and reasonably? We're all adults here-"  
  
"Actually, we're all seventeen..." Scott's voice trailed off as Alona levelled him with a glare that could strip paint. She could probably give ol' Sourwolf a run for his money. Sure, he had the eyebrows, but she compensated with a certain hint of _you will never enjoy your dick as much as I will enjoy tearing it off_ that Stiles had first experienced in one of Lydia's smiles. Chicks were scary man.  
  
Speaking of which, Alona was side-eyeing Stiles with unmasked irritation, as if she could hear his internal monologue, and found it somewhat lacking. Or annoying. Which, right, shutting up.  
  
"So...Cora, Cora the explorer-" Alona cleared her throat in a way that clearly said _get to the point_ , so Stiles hopped to it, to the point, he hopped to the point in order to get to it?- _Sweet mother of god he needed to be sleeping right now_ -  
  
Alona cleared her throat again, _quickly_ , it said.  
  
"Right, uh, so...how come you're rockin' a Carrie?"  
  
Cora's murderous expression suggested that maybe she wasn't in the mood for any Stephen King, but when she opened her mouth to speak she started choking on something, which- hadn't she been choking on something a second ago?  
  
All of a sudden Derek's head whipped up.  
  
"You called Argent?" he growled at Stiles, who just shook his head urgently.  
  
"Man we didn't know what we were going to find! Your girlfriend didn't exactly give us a descriptive message!" Any other day Stiles would be delighted in seeing Scott's sarcasm awake from it's slumber, but right now he was kinda being a bit of dick. Though unfortunately, as much as Scott was his bro, he was also kinda and prone to being an asshole when Alison was involved.  
  
"Yes Derek, why must you always seduce vulnerable teenagers like Erica Reyes into doing what you should do yourself?"  
  
Nobody was glad to see Chris Argent step through the door, except maybe Scott, who was glad to see anything that reminded him of Alison, even if the girl herself followed right behind her father.  
  
Stiles would have made a joke about Scott being whipped the second he lay eyes on the silver whip coiled around Alison's wrist, were it not for the fury twisting Alona's face as she turned and stepped between Derek and Argent, almost as if she were shielding the alpha as she spat at Argent, "I thought seducing teenagers was the Argent specialty."  
  
There was a stunned pause, the loft silent bar the wet sounds of still-choking Cora, because whilst Argent had practically lined that one up, nobody had expected anyone to actually take the shot. Eventually Argent just rolled his eyes before sighing, "I'll bite, who are you?"  
  
Stiles blinked and as result he missed the moment Alona's face changed from thunderous to genial, but it was freaky as hell to watch her shift out of her aggressive stance and stroll over to shake Argent's hand pleasantly (even Derek was staring at her in more than a little horror) before introducing herself in a creepily pleasant voice. Kinda like those cute grandmas  in the horror flicks that are always baking you pies and shit until you find out that their secret ingredient is the hearts of those kids who went missing on a camping trip a few weeks back. Or okay, maybe not quite that creepy, but pretty unsettling all the same.  
  
"Mortimer?" Chris Argent's smile widened, and it didn't feel like a good thing, "As in Alroy and Alastair Mortimer?"  
  
"Hmm I'm sorry, who?" Alona's smile hadn't moved at all, and if it wasn't for the intense staring contest she had going on with Chris Argent -who was still holding her hand by the way- Stiles would totally have believed she didn't recognise the names.  
  
"Oh no?" Argent's voice was far too casual, " So you aren't the Alona Mortimer who was siblings with Alroy, Alastair, Alana and Ailbe Mortimer?"  
  
Shit, there was totally some sort of power play going on here that Stiles didn't know about, and he wished desperately that he and Scott had been more successful at that telepathy machine when they were nine so that he could hear what was going on with Alona's heart right now.  


Because Argent had clearly talked her into a corner, and now Alona had no way out of it. Before she might have gotten away with careful evasion, but the direct question forced her to either blatantly dodge answering, which would be an answer in and of itself, or she would have to own up or face the werewolves in the room catching her lie. Yet despite all this, she wasn't showing any outward signs of distress beyond a preternatural stillness.

  
  
"I only ask because you may have met my brother-in-law." He continued conversationally.  
  
"Oh? How so?"  
  
 _No!_ Stiles wanted to shout, _It's too easy an out, he's tricking you!_

But the entire assembly was deathly silent, tension hanging thicker than smoke  as everyone simultaneously waited with baited breath to see who would emerge the victor of this impromptu...whatever it was, and waited for Argent's axe to fell the death blow.  
  
"Oh, he was the lead detective on the Julia Matthews case."  
  
"As a matter of fact," Argent's mouth flickered up, as if he had accidentally let a smile slip through, "He was the one to find Coinneach Mortimer's body when they went to arrest him."  
  
"It's such a shame an innocent man was murdered because the police had leaked his name." Alona replied blithely, and a little too quickly for her words to be as unaffected as her tone suggested.  
  
Stiles was so confused, was the dead dude related to Alona? He must be. Maybe her father? What did Alroy and Alastair have to do with anything?

 He got no clues from Alona. Her face was relaxed and her tone easy, though as she eased her hand from Argent's grip, Stiles could see a faint trembling start up in the tips of her fingers.  
  
This conversation, if it could even be called that, had clearly spun wildly out of the Alona's control, and Stiles was about to step in and do something, anything, when a strange (and okay, slightly terrifying) calm settled over the girl.  
She rose to her full height - _dude she was almost as tall as Argent!_ \- before casually cocking her head to the side as she ruefully shook her head.  
  
"And by his own sons! Though I must be honest, I defy anyone to learn their father murdered an innocent teenager and not seriously consider killing him..." It was clear from his comically stunned expression that Argent had been holding that as his trump card, and so had not expected or considered that she would just throw it out there like that. Stiles barely held in a /whoop/ and a fist pump as Alona tilted her head to and fro as if considering the options, whilst the entire room leaned forwards in anticipation.  
  
"Then again some would put him in a care home instead right? Though I imagine the only ones who would do that are the sort who help their wives stab themselves in the heart-"  
  
Alison's gasp from behind Argent was like a gunshot in the oppressive silence of the room, and Argent looked like the bullet had torn straight through him.  
  
With a glance of apology in Alison's direction, Alona dropped the friendliness from her face like a cloak thrown off her shoulders.  
  
"Do not try to play family roulette with me, Argent." she spat, her tone oozing vitriol, "Your family name is drenched far more innocent blood than mine could ever be."  
  
To Argent's credit, he let it go with little more than a glare.  
  
  
  
Stiles could not fucking believe it, he could not _fucking_ believe it.  
  
Alona had just punched Argent, no, _Chris_ not in the jaw -as you might expect- but instead one of those _oh you rascal you_ bro-punches on the shoulder.  
  
Twenty minutes ago they were all set to whip out their broadswords in defence of their houses, and now they were having a friendly chat about the deactivation process the hunters used on all their wolf's bane.  
Stiles hadn't even _known_ that wolf's bane needed deactivation before Alona had full on slapped the small purple flower -which apparently was what Cora kept choking on every time she tried to explain what had happened- out of his hand when he had picked one of the saliva-coated blossoms off the floor.  
  
It turns out, Aconitine is poisonous enough to kill you _just from touching it_.  
When Scott had objected that the hunters -cue longing glance at Allison- used it all the time without dying, Alona had given him a look of disdain fit to rival those of one Lydia Martin, and proceeded to explain in small words that _obviously_ the hunters used the flower for it's magical properties, not it's poison, and so _of course_ they deactivated the poison first.  
  
Chris had looked a strange combination of impressed and pleased that mostly just ended up looking slightly pervy, whilst Stiles kicked himself (literally, though that was more because he tripped over his shoelace) for not researching the apparently deadly poison they had been all but swimming in.  
  
When it became clear that Cora wasn't going to be able to tell them anything, she had gone to take a seat at the table and start writing it down, whilst everyone else got sucked into the wolf's bane conversation and Derek finally put on some clothes and brooded on the periphery.  
  
"But why wolf's bane?" Chris asked no one in particular.  
  
"Because she's a wolf?" trust Scott to state the obvious and still sound confused.  
  
"But there are loads of other significances to Aconite, we can't rule them out completely." Allison pointed out.  
  
"Yeah," Alona nodded, "it's probably unlikely to be relevant in this case, but as an example, in floral messaging, Monkshood means 'Beware, a deadly foe is near'"  
  
"Dude!" Stiles exclaimed, "So I could like, send someone a bouquet and have it say something like, 'meet me under the bridge at midnight -bring your shovel'?"  
  
Alona laughed at that.  
  
"Oh if only, most of it is like 'you're so hot it'll kill me, let's elope.'"  
  
"But you'd have to be sure that the other person knows the code right?" Allison shot a look at Scott, which, good luck with getting Scott to learn the meanings of a hundred different flowers. Then again, Allison always managed to inspire greatness -or at least attempts there at- in Scott, so maybe there was a chance still.  
  
"How do _you_ even know this stuff?" Stiles felt compelled to ask.  
  
"I imagine all the Mortimer children would have received extensive tutelage in the finer points of etiquette."  
  
There was a moment of tension when everyone waited to see if the former tension would return at Argent's speculation, but it quickly dissipated when Alona chuckled softly.  
  
"Oh god yeah hours," She grinned ruefully, " You don't want to accidentally send 'you have disappointed me' instead of 'blessings on new life' to the baroness who just had a baby."  
  
"Do you regularly send flowers to aristocracy?"  
  
Alona didn't get a chance to reply before Cora interrupted them to say that she had finished writing everything down.  
  
They all crowded around the table, and a stunned silence fell over the group as they stared at the sheet of paper.  
  
"What?" Cora demanded snappishly, looking from their increasingly horrified expressions back to the paper -which she clearly wasn't seeing as they were seeing.  
  
There were hundreds of lines running horizontally across the page, with complex little clusters of tally marks and symbols drawn above, below or traversing the line.  
What ever it was that Cora had written, it sure as hell wasn't English.  
  
"What?" she insisted again.  
  
"That's not English." Stiles clarified for her, and like a spell being broken, her gaze whipped back to the paper, running her fingers over the lines in awe.  
  
"I- I- don't even remember what I wrote." she confessed softly.  
  
"Could you try to write it again, see if it comes out the same?" Stiles asked gently, placing a comforting hand on her wrist. Her hands had started shaking.  
  
"I can't remember what happened either anymore, just that-" she broke off in a another round of gagging and choking, and everyone stepped back from the table to give her some space.  
  
"What are you going to do now?" Chris Argent asked sternly, as if this wasn't his problem, "Who ever did this to her clearly didn't want anyone finding out about them."  
  
Derek nodded seriously and Stiles spared a moment to feel bad for him. Poor guy just couldn't catch a break. That feeling quickly evaporated though, at the next words out of the Alpha's mouth.  
  
"Stiles and Lydia will translate it."  
  
"Wha-?" he squawked indignantly, "I already have Alona stuff!"  
  
"What Alona stuff?" Scott asked him, the suspicion in his eyes making him look a lot like a distrustful puppy.  
  
"I don't think this can be translated." Alona stated, matter of fact.  
  
She had picked up the sheet of paper when Cora had started choking, and she didn't look up from it as she continued.  
  
"I think this is Ogham, so you wouldn't get very far with it."  
  
"Ogham?" Derek asked, nonplussed.  
  
"It's one of the earliest forms of writing we know of in the UK and Ireland." she turned the page sideways, though for what Stiles didn't know, " I think it's from somewhere around one century BC or AD, I can't remember. And it doesn't matter."  
  
She set the page back down on the table as Cora's coughing calmed down and the girl rejoined everyone in looking at Alona curiously.  
  
"I'm pretty sure that there have only been short examples of it found, mostly names, and so we can't translate it beyond a basic alphabet."  
  
Derek murmured  a sarcastic _fan-tastic_ under his breath.  
  
"So we can't figure out what Cora wrote?" Scott looked as nervous at that as Stiles felt.  
  
"Feel free to try, but I sincerely doubt it."  
  
"Well, crap."  
  
 _Well put Scotty, well put_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Fireproof' by The National:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcXyGeYkjJw
> 
> Oooohhoohoohoo! Like in Brazil, it's all kicking off in Beacon Hills! Only with more death and destruction, though probably equal amounts of misery (oh Spain)
> 
> I promised you guys that shit was gonna start getting real and here we are. My exams are finally done so now I have oodles of free time to write, so expect more regular updates :)
> 
> EDIT: OH MY GOD. As if It's 30k already! Seriously, like, in the arc of a season, this would be episode 2/3. It's a looooooong way to go yet...
> 
> Laters yo,
> 
> B  
> x


	9. Animal Impulses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter did not look nearly concerned enough about the bombshell he just dropped, though Derek was making up for it by looking extra murderous.
> 
> "Surely there is something we can do-" Alona started but was cut off by Peter.
> 
> "What part of _you always die ___am I not communicating sufficiently?"

Derek almost startled when Alona surged up off the couch and made her way up the staircase, the iron resonating with each tread of her bare feet.  
  
He had been lying awake for who knows how long, listening to Cora cry in her bed and feeling a painfully familiar impotence grasp his every muscle in its paralysing grip.  
  
He rolled onto his side, eyes settling on the vacated couch as he heard Alona enter his sister's room, the sound of Cora stifling her tears at her presence making his heart clench.  
  
"Hey," Alona's voice was husky with sleep, " You alright?"  
  
Cora sucked in a shuddering breath which quickly dissolved into wet keening as Derek heard Alona stumble towards the bed.  
  
"Hey- hey, it's okay," Alona consoled.  
  
The pad of footsteps approached the rustle of bed sheets as Cora rolled over, burying her face into her pillow.  
  
"It's okay, it's okay," Derek made out the creak of bed springs as Alona lowered herself onto the mattress, "I've got you, you're okay."  
  
The rustle of fabric was shortly followed by the sound of a kiss being pressed into cloth-covered skin -a shoulder perhaps?- and the soft murmurs Alona kept up alongside the telltale glide of a hand running backwards and forwards over skin.  
  
Derek was too tired to even think -it had been almost 6 am by the time Cora was showered and heading to bed, and he couldn't allow himself to so much as shut his eyes until he knew she was safely tucked in- yet sleep remained impossible. His accelerated healing kept his eyes from becoming blood shot and dry, but they held the familiar ache of exhaustion and prolonged healing.

He allowed his eyes to slip shut once more, though he resigned himself to lying in bed until Cora and Alona had caught up enough sleep that the disruption he would cause by getting up and moving around wouldn't be a problem.  
  
So instead he listened closely as Alona eventually fell silent, though he assumed she continued her calming strokes as the _hush hush_ of skin dragging over skin didn't stop.  
Even Cora's tears gradually subsided and she too became silent -enough so that had their heartbeats not given them away, Derek would have assumed them to be sleeping.  
  
As it was, it was a long time before Cora broke into the quiet with a whisper.  
  
"Alona?"  
  
The stroking sound hesitated for a moment, and Derek could hear from the uptick in her heartbeat that Alona had startled slightly at the soft voice, before resuming its slow rhythm.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Did you do it deliberately?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Lie between me and the door."  
  
"Sorry, I thought it might help, I-" Derek could hear the rustle of sheets as Alona started pulling away, "I can-"  
  
"-No don't."  
  
The rustling stopped.  
  
"It's- It's good."  
  
This time when Alona settled both girls fell into a careful silence, and then eventually into a cautious slumber.  
  
Derek barely noticed their languorous sighs lulling him to sleep until it was too late and he slipped into dreamless unconsciousness.  
  
  
  
  
"Awwh come on Mr Growly, you know you love this song!"  
  
  
 _Mr Growly_ did not love this song. He had not loved it when it first came out, and in the eight years since not a single fool had wandered into his yard, milkshakes or no.  
  
Actually that wasn't true. Stiles and Scott had, once, but that was completely unrelated to any dairy products or _whatever the fuck that was supposed to even represent_.  
  
"Derrrrrrrrek..." Alona whined.  
  
He just rolled his eyes.  
  
Alona was dancing - _ha!_ Dancing! _More like dry-humping the air_ \- on the table, and Derek rued the day that he had purchased the jeans that currently clung to the globes of her ass, the snug denim and her elevated position serving to make the deep rolls of her hips not so much provocative as utterly obscene.  
  
The only reasons Derek hadn't ordered her to get the fuck down already, were that the show was predominantly for Cora who- _literally crying_ with laughter at the near-explicit way that Alona curled her tongue at Derek- desperately needed the reprieve from the foreboding lacing her every movement, and because he had just heard Isaac start bounding up the staircase to the loft, and he couldn't wait to see Alona's face when he burst in.  
  
Reality greatly exceeded his expectations, however, when Isaac did not burst in. Rather, he slipped in almost silently, going completely unnoticed by Alona -who was crawling "seductively" along the table top to Derek.  
  
"Come on!" she brazenly tugged him forward by the belt-loops, "Dance with me."  
  
Derek could barely keep a straight face when his eyes met Cora's, his sister having heard Isaac enter and waiting giddily for the moment Alona realised what was going on, before somehow managing to reply, "I don't dance, but-" he gestured over her shoulder, "Isaac might."  
  
The undignified squawk was almost completely drowned out by Derek and Cora's roaring laughter at the unadulterated horror on Alona's face, her heading turning slowly until she locked eyes on a smirking Isaac, a small mortified whimper sending them over the edge all over again.  
  
"Oh my god," Cora sighed, wiping tears from her eyes as she rose to switch off the music still blaring through the room.  
  
"My thoughts precisely." Isaac muttered drily, much more so than Derek had ever heard from the timid beta.  
  
"So, uh, I'm Alona." she gave an awkward little wave.  
  
"Isaac." he nodded in return.  
  
"So," he started, turning to Derek, "Why'd you call? Is it to do with why Scott, Allison and Stiles all fell asleep in Biology today?"  
  
Just like that the jovial mood plummeted at the reminder of the previous night's events.  
  
"Yeah it is." Derek felt momentarily bad for the three teenagers' schoolwork being affected, before he continued, "But we're waiting until Peter gets here to explain it all."  
  
Isaac huffed before turning to settle on the couch, wrinkling his nose at the scent of Alona imbedded in the leather. Derek had to simultaneously fight the urge to roar at Isaac for daring to disrespect him in such a way _-since when did Alona's scent have_ anything _to do with respecting Derek?-_ and preening at the knowledge that she had spent so much time using his couch that other wolves could smell the way the material had become infused with her essence. Which was _...unusual?_  
  
He cleared his head with a shake as he heard Peter's car pull up outside. He would need all of his mental faculties fully online to deal with his uncle's snark. To make matters worse, Derek just knew that the older man was going to be absolutely _insufferable_ regarding Derek's thinly-concealed desire for Alona.  
The very prospect was so unappealing that Derek almost hadn't invited his uncle to the pack meeting, but the fact remained that Peter had the best chances of figuring out what was going on with Cora.  
  
Derek startled when he felt Alona's hand on his shoulder, and it wasn't until he took in her questioning gaze that he realised he was scowling, and had all but burnt a hole into the floor with his glare.  
Her hand squeezed gently, a question, and Derek forced his scowl to go lax as he reassured her with a minute shake of his head.  
  
Isaac narrowed his eyes at them, his eyes flicking suspiciously between Derek's head and Alona's hand.  


Isaac's scrutiny of their interaction was unsettling, and Derek was relieved when all the gazes in the room were drawn to the door. Peter sauntered in as he always did _-was the man  physically incapable of walking normally? God-_ his eyes zeroing in on Alona and where her hand was still on Derek's shoulder, making her jerk it back as if burned.

  
  
The sudden bitter-acrid scent of guilt hit Derek like a wave, only getting stronger and sticking at the back of his throat as Peter drew closer to where he and Alona were standing in the centre of the room.  
  
There was no way that his uncle wasn't picking up on the thickness of the emotion in the air, but Peter waited until he was right before them to exclaim indignantly.  
  
"Well Derek, aren't you going to introduce us?" his grin was infuriating.  
"I know for a fact my sister raised you better than that."  
  
Derek could see Cora rolling her eyes over Peter's shoulder, and Derek sighed heavily before turning slightly to Alona, fully intending to deliver the most scathing introduction possible.  
  
"Alona, this is my Uncle Peter. He was the Alpha until I-"  
  
Derek was cut off by Alona surging forward and pulling Peter into an embrace. Derek and his uncle exchanged a puzzled look as Peter eventually brought his hands up to hesitantly pat the trembling girl on the back.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Alona was mumbling into a shoulder, her voice wobbly, "I tried to help, I did, I'm so sorry, I couldn't save you-"  
  
Derek felt like he was watching in slow motion as Alona's words registered with Peter, who stilled before pulling back to look Alona in the face, this time searching for any hint of memory. There was a moment, when recognition struck, that Peter looked so _devastated_... But in a heartbeat it was gone, replaced by fury as a clawed hand grasped her by the throat and threw her to the floor, Peter unleashing a wounded roar into her face, his sharp fangs mere inches from the delicate skin.  
  
Before he could even think about it, the full force of the Alpha roar tore out of Derek, making the betas all whine and cower, though Peter didn't release the choking grip he had on Alona's neck.  
  
Her face was purpling, and although her body jerked in aborted attempts to throw Peter off, Derek could see that her hands weren't trying to claw the bruising hands away -they were rubbing gently, sporadically squeezing, as if searching to comfort.  
  
Peter followed Derek's gaze just as Alona's eyes started to grow distant, her tears running into her hairline, before he suddenly let her go.  
The ragged gulp of her inhale betrayed just how badly she had needed the oxygen, and more tears ran down her cheeks as she tried to sit up. Peter still looked shell-shocked as she grabbed him by the front of his shirt, her hands clenching in the fabric as she rested her trembling fists against his chest.  
  
"I'm-" her voice was barely a croak, but seemed hushed all the same, "I swear to you, if I ever get the-"  
  
She exhaled wetly into the silence.  
  
"I'll go back and I'll save her. I promise, I'll go back and I'll save her."  
  
 _Maggie_.  
  
Peter's whole body shook at the vow, rising on unsteady legs before helping Alona up too.  
  
"I think it's time, nephew, that you explained a few things."  
  
  
  
Alona _loved_ Peter.  
  
He was funny -in an egotistical, overly narcissistic sort of way- and he had a wicked gleam in his eye with every sly flirtation he and Alona passed between each other, of which there were many.  
  
God, the man was just so much _fun_ , especially after weeks spent with only Derek and Cora for company. Plus, Peter actually flirted back, whereas Derek just looked at her like she'd pissed in his coffee whenever she got anything more than distantly friendly.  
  
 _Speaking of which_ , it hadn't passed Alona's notice that Derek himself was growing increasingly glower-y with every casual touch she placed on Peter's arm, and even from the other side of the room she could practically hear his molars being ground to dust when Peter placed his hand on the small of her back as the two of them rose and went to the kitchen, ostensibly to make tea.  
  
The separate room gave the illusion of a modicum of privacy, but Alona knew full well that it was foolish to think that the wolves in the other room couldn't hear them, or that they wouldn't be listening in. It was that knowledge that effected Alona's answer when Peter, taking mugs from the cupboard and setting them down on the chipped counter-top, asked her, "So what salacious folly was it that has my nephew turning into a caveman in there?"  
  
"I don't having a faintest clue what you're alluring to." she replied breezily as she filled the kettle with water from the tap.  
  
Peter just smirked.  
  
"Don't play coy, you're an idiot  if you think we don't all know that all of that touching back there was solely to set the boy's alpha instincts a-rioting."  
  
Alona rolled her eyes at that, even though she was almost giving herself an aneurism with the surge of curiosity regarding _alpha instincts_.  
  
 _Fuck, was he going to pee on her or something? Mark his territory or some shit?_  
  
"Please," she cast disdainfully as she switched the kettle on, "If _you_ think that everything I do is for the benefit of _that boy_ , then you are clearly not as attractive or intelligent as I thought you were."  
  
"You find me attractive, hmm?"  
  
"Oh I don't know." she replied coquettishly, "I'm afraid that, as I was saying, I don't think I could find any man attractive who thought I would use _flirting_ of all things to get back at someone."  
  
His grin was downright predatory as he asked, "Oh? So how would you?"  
  
She threw him a look of her own.  
  
"If I wanted to punish Derek," she replied blithely, as she lifted the finishing kettle and poured the boiling water into the waiting mugs, " then I'd let you fuck me right against this counter."  
  
Peter had a deeply amused -if slightly distant- expression on his face, before his gaze met hers again in challenge.  
  
"Well isn't that surprising." he watched her hands as she removed the tea bags, his eyes roaming over her body, assessing, as she bent to place them in the bin.  
  
"I'd have thought a girl with a heart as big as yours would be the sort for rose petals and Whitney Houston, _never in a million years_ would I have had you for the type to have a revenge-fuck."  
  
"You sure do presume to know a lot about my heart."  
  
"Only the size of it."  
  
"I'm afraid my heart is not nearly as big as you seem to imagine it to be-"  
  
"Your first words to me were an apology for not saving me from a fire you had no hand in."  
  
His words prodded insistently, uncomfortably, at a part of her that felt vulnerable and sensitive. So it was probably with a little more coldness than was necessary that she rebuffed.  
  
"I apologised because I gave you hope of salvation, then ripped it away while you _burned_."  
  
She stepped around him and strode out of the kitchen, but couldn't resist having the last word  and throwing over her shoulder as she went,  
"Oh and babe, I'm the type for _every_ fuck."  
  
  
  
Peter ended up being both incredible helpful and no help at all.  
  
Derek had finished the story of the previous night through gritted teeth and dark glowering (mostly directed at Alona, though Peter got a few himself) and Peter's first question was to ask what Cora had smelt like.  
  
"Blood of course." came Derek's terse reply.  
  
Peter rolled his eyes - _apparently it runs in the family_ \- before clarifying' "But _under_ that, what did she smell like? The preserve? Gas? Fast Food? Did you notice anything off about her personal scent? Come on nephew, you're born, not bitten. You have no excuse for being lazy with these things."  
  
Derek's expression flickered into a bewildered frown.  
  
"She didn't smell like anything."  
  
"She didn't smell like anything? Or she smelled like _nothing?_ "  
  
"Nothing smells like nothing." Isaac pointed out, somewhat obviously.  
  
"Exactly." Alona was starting to thing Peter got kick out of being the only person in a room who understood whatever the fuck was coming out of his mouth.  
  
"Everything leaves a scent, so what if the scent left by whatever did that to me is _nothing?_ " Cora said with dawning realisation.  
  
That sounded like it should make sense, but actually it totally didn't. Darkness wasn't something in and of itself, it was just the absence of light. That was why you couldn't measure darkness, only how little light was present. Which she pointed out to the group.  
  
"Dark matter." Isaac pointed out.  
  
"Theoretical." she shot back, "besides, not even remotely applicable to the situation."  
  
Everyone heard the _nerds_ Cora muttered under her breath.  
  
 "Magic and shit does not follow physics." Isaac shook his head decisively. "Have you seen Derek go full alpha? Conservation of mass is taken as a suggestion, not a rule."  
  
"Full alpha?" _What was that? Was it like the avatar state or something?_  
  
"As fascinating as this science lesson is, I have plans." Peter cut in, his dry tone belying his words.  
"So please, Derek, just clarify what it was you smelled."  
  
Alona looked to Derek for his answer, and saw that he looked a little disturbed as he replied carefully, "I don't-, she smelled of nothing. Nothing at all."  
  
Silence descended on the room, everyone looking at each other in confusion and trepidation, bar Peter -who clapped his hands together with far more delight than the situation merited and proclaimed, "Dullahan."  
  
Alona ignored the confused clamouring of the group, the word striking her as familiar.  
  
When she was still very young, before she ever went to away to boarding school, her mother had allowed an elderly woman to live with them on the estate for a time. She wasn't sure, but she thought that maybe the old woman had been a relation of the housekeeper? Her mother had allowed the elderly woman to stay with them out of some sort loyalty, or maybe just because before her father's death and her brothers' incarceration (which had led to her mother drinking and gambling away any value that had remained of their family name) the Mortimer crest had carried a great deal of favour and respect within aristocratic circles, and one did not gather that sort of reputation by being seen to be unkind to those less fortunate.  
  
Anyway, the woman had been bed-ridden for the entire duration of her stay and little Nala -her big brothers away at boarding school and her little sisters not yet born- spent most evenings  colouring pictures with the old crone.  
Alona could remember finding the old lady's colouring so unusual and frustrating. The woman filled all the spaces with large swirling loops, always using certain colours regardless of the subject matter (Alona had once given her a very stern talking to because there was _no such thing as blue beards okay?_ ), so much so that Alona's red pencil was almost an inch shorter than all the others.  
  
The woman was Irish and very, very traditional, constantly berating Nala for not speaking any Irish ("But I live in England, and _nobody_ speaks Irish!", "Irish blood should have an Irish tongue!"), but she was also loaded with stories.  
Nala had always thought the lady just made up the stories herself, but Alona knew with hindsight that most of them were in fact tales from the old Irish Gaelic folklore.  
  
And that was where she knew it from. _Dullahan_.  
 _Headless horseman, harbinger of death, something about a carriage and bones..._  
  
She was snapped out her reverie by Peter's voice.  
  
"...and if they catch you watching them then they pour a bowl of cold blood over you. Then normally you die shortly after that."  
  
"What do you mean _normally?_ " Cora spat as she rose to start pacing.  
  
Peter did not look nearly concerned enough about the bombshell he just dropped, though Derek was making up for it by looking extra murderous.  
  
"By 'normally' I mean you always die shortly after." He shrugged blithely, "I was just trying to soften the blow."  
  
"Surely there is something we can do-" Alona started but was cut off by Peter.  
  
"What part of _you always die_ am I not communicating sufficiently?" he snapped as he finally broke the indifference he had been holding onto, but even so Alona got the impression that it was more at the fact that they seemed to be questioning his words than any concern for his niece's life.  
  
"How do you know all this?" Isaac cast suspiciously at Peter, who only looked bored by the barely-there accusation.  
  
"First of all, it was my job to. Derek may allow you all to flounder along as you please, but in packs successful like ours was everyone had a role to play. My wife and I were responsible for the safekeeping of the pack's history and knowledge-" Peter glared at Isaac for the coughed _librarians_ , "and secondly, Derek, do you remember that visiting alpha who died in the preserve? You would have been about five or six..."  
  
Alona had to tamp down on the overwhelming urge to gush over the mental image of a five-year-old Derek, with too-big eyebrows and a gap-toothed smile.  
  
"...No."  
  
"No matter. The _only_ reason why that didn't ignite a pack war? She'd been marked by the Dullahan a few days prior and _everyone knew_ that her death was entirely unavoidable.

" It did not even matter if we had killed her, because if we hadn't she would have been fatally shot by a hunter, or been hit by a drunk driver, or struck by lightning or any of a million other possibilities. Because you can't escape an altered fate."

  
  
Derek looked ash grey by the time Peter had finished, though he had nothing on Cora.  
Alona could see the sweet glistening on her top lip, and her lips trembled as they parted to suck in a shaky inhale before she spoke, her voice wavering and cracking.  
  
"So basically, I'm going to die."  
  
Peter almost looked apologetic as he nodded once, before adding softly, "Soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animal Impulses by IAMX:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DJbooQMhf4
> 
> [yeah more IAMX, his songs are just weird enough that they actually fit with the chapters]
> 
> So, I know I said that the end of exams meant that updates were gonna be more regular, but things have been crazy at work and I just didn't have time to upload this chapter.
> 
> The next chapter may take a while, because I am considering smooshing the next two chapters together into a sort of double-bill, if only because the next chapter is kinda filler-y?
> 
>  
> 
> Please review and comment on what you think of the story so far, I'd love to hear what you want to see more of and what needs improving.
> 
> B  
> x


	10. Song of Keening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek stood there, immobile, even as his phone started buzzing in his pocket. He couldn’t bring himself to answer it -to move- as the breeze picked up again, the chill cutting through the insubstantial drapes, dragging a lock of hair over Cora’s cheek and bringing with it the unmistakable, undeniable scent of _human._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> [Song of Keening by Aine Minogue on Grooveshark](http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Aine%20Minogue%20Song%20of%20Keening)   
> 
> 
> NB: you should open the link in a new tab cos it won't do so automatically.  
>  
> 
> I am so sorry, I actually didn't realise that I hadn't posted this chapter.
> 
> Man this chapter was a bitch to write! I'm still not entirely happy with it, I don't feel it quite gathered the atmosphere I was going for. My mental image the entire time I was writing this was of each of our characters standing alone on a forest path and looking back over their shoulder in trepidation, as the thick mist settles around them.
> 
> I highly recommend you listen to the song as you read, it's a really good example of traditional Irish keening. Which, mythologically speaking, is canon for the sound banshee's make, not screaming. But there you go, this is what I imagine Lydia having stuck in her head.
> 
> B  
> x

The silence probably didn't last very long, but it felt like hours before Alona burst out, "Well fuck that!" making all the wolves flinch.  
  
"Like fuck are we just gonna sit here and wait for the world to fall down around our ears!" she stood, pointing a finger in indignation.  
  
"Alona-" Derek tried to stop her, but she spoke over him.  
  
"No way! Derek, we'll find a way!" she advanced on him, "Put away that _ooh everyone I love gets ripped from my very arms_ bullshit and call Stiles."  
  
Derek just looked at her with a slightly stunned expression.  
  
"Tell him I'm heading over to his, and that I'm not leaving until we know everything we need to know about harbingers of death."  
  
Peter perked up at that.  
  
"How do you know about harbingers? I didn't mention that term-"  
  
"-Not relevant." she cut him off with a wave of her hand.  
  
"You're taking me to Stiles' house, and we'll research the shit out of this, and in the mean time Isaac'll let Scott know so that he can tell Chris..." she continued dishing out orders as she collected her jacket, slipping it over her shoulders as she rounded on the group, who were all sharing incredulous looks.  
  
When she saw that none of them were making any moves to do as she told, she exhaled sharply, much to Peter's amusement.  
  
"Well!?" she demanded, snapping her fingers in a deliberately obnoxious manner, "Hustle!"  
  
They did. Eventually.  
  
  
  
Stiles didn't manage to make it to the door before his dad, which meant that he didn't get to bypass the incredulous eyebrows-in-the-hairline look his father threw him as Alona walked through the door.  
  
"Alona." his dad greeted her with a nod.  
  
"You remembered my name!" she exclaimed gleefully in response.  
  
"Well as sheriff and father of the primary trouble-magnet in Beacon Hills," -Stiles scoffed in indignation, which his dad ignored- "I've learnt to pay attention to new people popping up around Derek Hale."  
  
Alona's face fell.  
  
"Yeah I guess that's wise, since his last girlfriend tried to turn you into a human sacrifice and all."  
  
Stiles and his dad shared a grimace at that memory, before his dad shook it off and turned business-like once more.  
  
"So what can I do for you today?"  
  
His dad was wearing his attentive-Sheriff face, so Stiles stepped in.  
  
"Uh actually Alona and I are just going to do some research..." his dad placed a hand on the arm Stiles had been using to try and drag Alona towards the stairs and away from his father's questions.  
  
"Is there something I should know about?" the look his dad was shooting him was not insignificant. This was kinda the first supernatural incident to have cropped up in Beacon Hills since the shitstorm with the Darach had outed Stiles to his dad in a major way, and definitely the first since he and his dad had had that intensely manly, _definitely no tears here no sir_ chat, which culminated in Stiles promising to tell his dad about any evil encroaching on Beacon Hills and his dad, in return, promising that he wouldn't stop Stiles from doing whatever he needed to do to stop that (which he knew did not come easily for his dad, and he loved his dad more than anything for recognising that Stiles _needed_ to be helping, that after _mom_ stiles couldn't stand by and watch any more people die).  
  
So his dad was giving him this look that said that this moment -with their front door still wide open and letting in a cutting breeze around their legs- was a big deal, and Stiles needed to choose his next steps knowing what it would mean if he looked into his dad's open eyes and lied now.  
  
Yeah, he kinda deflated a little under that.  
  
"Uhhh, yeah let's go sit down."  
  
His dad didn't say anything, just ushered Alona towards the dining room, allowing Stiles to close the front door with a heavy thud that seemed to resonate with the weight in his chest -which couldn't help but insist that with whatever decision Stiles had just unwittingly made, something had been set into motion that he couldn't take back.  
  
  
  
  
Stiles rubbed his eyes. The words on the page were beginning to blur together after five solid hours of research, only broken by a particularly uncomfortable dinner during which his dad would pause and look at Nala, before returning his food with a head shake and a incredulously muttered _time travel_. A process which repeated itself no less than five times during the course of the meal.  
  
Speaking of which, Alona had been a massive help when -after Stiles had muttered for the millionth time how much easier this would all be if he knew Irish- she managed to set up a Skype call between Stiles and a ginger dude called Thomas.  
  
Thomas had been crazily useful, translating a shit-ton of text for them even though it was in old Gaelic and therefore apparently _barely even the same language mate_.  
  
Alona had of course made herself scarce once the Skype dial-tone had started up, because the last thing they needed to do was start trying to explain why she had suddenly popped up in California looking older than she was supposed to be.  
Stiles had of course taken full advantage of this.  
  
"So how long have you known Nala?" he asked as casually as he could muster.  
  
Thomas looked up from the dictionary he had held open over the keys.  
  
"She lets ya call her that and I'm surprised you have to ask."  
  
Stiles had to chuckle a little at that. He hadn't exactly called her that to her face yet, he wasn't sure it was his place when even _Derek_ still called her Alona and those two were but a breath away from proclaiming their undying love for each other.  
  
"She doesn't talk about her past much..." he hedged instead, since that was where he was hoping to take the conversation anyway.  
  
"And did it never cross your mind that maybe there was a reason for it?"  
 _did it neever crawss yer ma-eend..._ Stiles parroted in his head.  
  
"Well of course it did. But there are two reasons people are cagey about their past; either they're ashamed of it, or they've done something they don't want you to know about."  
  
Thomas' gaze turned flinty and his voice cold as he challenged.  
  
"And what's it to you? Why does a boy in America want to know all about Alona Mortimer?"  
  
Stiles' eyes narrowed. He couldn't help but wonder why it sounded like there _were_ people that wanted to find out more about Alona Mortimer, and that Thomas did not look on them fondly.  
  
Thomas caught the change in Stiles' expression, and his expression flipped from distrustful to downright angry.  
  
"Listen up buddy! I helped you 'cause Alona sent me an email asking that I do, but she did not say anything about trusting you, and since I don't know you from Adam, I'm not telling you shit!"  
  
Stiles tried to defend himself, but Thomas didn't even pause for breath as he continued.  
  
"Listen mate, if she didn't tell you herself then she clearly doesn't want you to know! And I'll be fucked before I see anymore of the Mortimer name smeared across the tabloids! Good night and _fuck off!_ "  
  
And suddenly Skype was chirping at him that the call had been ended.

 

_Smeared across the tabloids, huh?_  
  
Stiles took a moment to puff out a heavy exhale before jumping up and into action, poking his head out the door to his bedroom and hollering down the stairs.  
  
"Nala-" he cringed, _whoopsies_.  
  
There was a pause before a voice - _thank god_ \- called back, "Yeah?"  
  
"Dya wanna spend the night? It's getting kinda late-"  
  
"Stiles."  
  
Shit that was his dad.  
  
"Hey dad?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Can Alona spend the night? It's getting kinda late-"  
  
"Sure if she wants to."  
  
"Hey Alona-"  
  
He was cut off by the round of expletives he heard coming from the living room and his dad's responding chuckles.  
  
"Derek's number is on the fridge!" he grinned.  
  
Right, he probably had about ten minutes before Alona came back up the stairs.  
  
He returned to his desk and fired up google.  
  
  
  
"What the _fuck_ do you think you are doing?"  
  
Stiles startled so violently his desk-chair rolled back almost half a foot, but he hadn't even finished correcting himself before he pressed some keys and his laptop screen went dark.  
  
But not in time to hide what he had been looking at.  
  
 _Lady Looses Lords: Lady Mortimer loses her seat in the House of Lords..._  
  
We Did In Da!: Alroy and Alastair Mortimer found guilty of murdering Lord Mortimer...  
  
Lord Coinneach Mortimer arrested in connection to Jessica Matthews Case...

_"I CAN'T STOP MYSELF!" Lady Mortimer declared unfit to raise children..._  
  
"Oh!" Alona seethed, "Don't stop on my account!"  
  
The sardonic laugh she felt wrenching itself out of her was choked and bitter, an ugly thing to even her own ears.  
  
Stiles seemed torn as to what to do in the face of it, twitching backwards and forwards, throwing halting glances between her and the Marvel screen saver that had popped up.  
  
And this, _this_ was exactly what she hated the most. When those who didn't know the Mortimer name (and let's be honest, that constituted most people -Alona wasn't foolish enough to think of her family as _celebrities_ or some such nonsense) finally realised exactly who the Mortimers were, and why the name seemed so familiar.

  
Usually it got like this, awkward and uncomfortable, as the other person tried to pretend they weren't thinking about how her very _father_ was accused of murder-raping a twelve-year-old girl, and the brothers she had had murdered said father in a righteous fury.

Maybe if they were really with the times, they'd be trying not to think about how Lady Mortimer gambled and drank herself out of the House of Lords and straight into bankruptcy, about the field day the press had had when after the third trip to rehab, a judge finally declared Lady Mortimer unfit to provide care to a minor, and Alana and Ailbe Mortimer (6, 5) were taken to foster care.  
It was highly unlikely that they would even have read about how Alona Mortimer, 16, had fought the courts for her little sisters when the little ones' foster parents had petitioned to move to Spain. It would be even less likely that they would have heard that Alona, of course, did not win that one.  
  
Alona felt the familiar bone-weary exhaustion that so often accompanied her surname settle on her, and judging by the flicker of remorse she saw on Stiles' still somewhat panicked face, he saw it too.  
  
"Why?-" she sighed, "Why couldn't you just ask me? If you wanted to know so badly? Have I ever been anything other than honest with you?"  
  
Stiles at least had the decency to look guilty as his shoulders slumped.  
  
"Man, I dunno, I'm sorry. Just-" he rubbed a hand over his face, "I didn't want you to do the whole scary-nice thing again."  
  
Alona was surprised, and it showed in her voice when she asked, "Derek told you about that?"  
  
"What? I was there-"  
  
"Uh, no you weren't." she insisted slowly, "You had definitely left by that point."  
  
"What?" Stiles punctuated his exclamation with a flail, "Dude no? What's wrong with you? We just got there."  
  
This wasn't making a lick of sense. They were clearly talking about different things.  
  
"Mate, what are you even on about? I'm talking about my little-" her hand shooed the air as she sought the right word to describe that nightmare, "incident with Derek."  
  
Stiles' head whipped around.  
  
"I was talking about you getting all Starks-v-Lannisters with Argent!"  
  
He leaned forward in his chair, "But by all means, tell me about the Derek incident."  
  
And suddenly it was Alona's turn to feel sheepish, rubbing the back of her hand against her brow.  
  
"Uhhh, so Derek and I kinda had a moment-"  
  
"- a sex moment?" Stiles interrupted with salacious glee.  
  
" _No_ , a kissing moment." she ignored the disappointed noise, "But just when it looked like it might be going somewhere, he pulled away and said it had been a mistake. And then I freaked out and acquaintance-zoned him."  
  
" _Acquaintance-zoned?_ " Stiles snickered, "I don't think that's a thing."  
  
"Sure it is," she smirked, "You become so polite and detached that the friend-zone looks like a warm and happy haven."  
  
They shared a chuckle over that one before Stiles suddenly grew somber again.  
  
"Hey, we're alright aren't we?"  
  
His gaze was imploring, and when Alona really considered it, she realised that she would like to be. Alright, and maybe even friends.  
  
"Yeah." she said warmly, with a smile that felt almost surprisingly unforced.

 

 

 

 

Derek was woken by someone humming outside the loft door. The melody was hard to distinguish, aimless as the tune seemed, and so achingly sad that it made Derek want to punch things.

 

So it was with no small amount of irritation that he threw the door open, ready to demand what the fuck someone was doing outside his door at- at- at seven o’clock in the morning, only to find an harried-looking banshee on his doorstep.

 

The humming abruptly cut off as her gaze met Derek’s and she asked, with more venom than the hour required, “So are you going to let me help you are you just going to stand there frowning at me?”

 

Derek barely resisted the urge to shut the door in her face, opting instead to let her through with little more than a glare.

 

She strutted her way through his loft, her heels clacking obnoxiously on the wooden floorboards, before dropping her outlandishly large hand-bag onto the table with a thud that suggested that at least she was utilizing all that space and carry around, say, a cement cinder-block.

 

“Would you like a hand with that? Perhaps a fork-lift truck?” he sniped as she hoisted a massive tome out of the bag and onto the table, where it thudded down onto the metal tabletop with a heavy gong.

 

“You’re feeling sassy this morning,” she retorted waspishly, “considering I’m here because you’re sister is going to die.”

 

And just like that all the air got sucked out of the room.

 

“Is that the banshee speaking? Or just your personal opinion?” he couldn’t quite insert enough derision into his voice to mask the fear behind his words. It was possible that was why Lydia’s gaze softened slightly as she admitted with a sigh, “No. This is the girl who has been up since five am trying to help you speaking.”

 

“Right,” Derek sighed, deflating, “So what are doing here?”

 

“Well, until I miraculously start screaming or hearing things-“ she settled into one of the chairs and flipped to a page marked with a yellow sticky-note, “I’m just going to sit here and read spells.”

 

“You think a spell can stop the Dullahan?” he was dubious to say the least. Spells were usually very specific, as well as notorious for loopholes that mean you often end up getting almost the exact opposite of what you asked for.

 

“Hmmm, not _stop him per se..._ ” Lydia murmured absentmindedly as she turned one yellowed page, “But perhaps we could find one to change Cora’s fate…”

 

And just like that she was absorbed once more, her eyes pouring through the page at a speed Derek could only envy, and he read _a lot._ After all there was only so much you could do when you had spent the better part of a year living without running water, forget Netflix.

 

 

 

 

It was nearing ten o’clock when Derek had had just about enough.

 

“Will you stop that?” he roared at Lydia, who did an impressive job of hiding the startle she gave at his sudden outburst.

 

“It is depressing as all hell, for one, and I can barely hear myself think beyond your incessant wailing!”

 

And it was true. Lydia had been singing under her breath, on and off for the last three hours. The very fact would have been grating in and of itself, let alone the way the haunting melody seemed to be carving itself into Derek’s bones.

 

“It’s been stuck in my head for the last three days,” she muttered under her breath as she returned to the page in front of her, “You think _you’re_ sick of it…”

 

Derek shook his head, partly out of frustration and partly because he couldn’t believe Cora was leaving him to face Lydia alone.

 

Actually, scratch that, he definitely _could_ believe it. What he couldn’t believe was that Cora was _still_ sleeping. Wolves didn’t tend to sleep late, some mix of the dawn chorus’ beating on hyper-sensitive ears and the hunting instinct insisting that the hours just before and after dawn being the prime time to catch prey meant that born wolves didn’t tend to sleep past an hour or two after sunrise, and definitely not as late as ten am in the morning. Hell, Derek was already starting to look forward to _lunch._

 

 

But when Derek stepped into Cora’s bedroom he suddenly realised why she wasn’t woken by the birds, even though her bedroom window was open, and an icy breeze was wafting in, making the sheer material of the curtains billow inwards towards Cora’s sleeping form.

 

Derek stood there, immobile, even as his phone started buzzing in his pocket. He couldn’t bring himself to answer it -to move- as the breeze picked up again, the chill cutting through the insubstantial drapes, dragging a lock of hair over Cora’s cheek and bringing with it the unmistakable, undeniable scent of _human._

Derek continued to stand, unmoving, until the shrill ringing of Lydia’s cell and her clipped reply snapped him out of his paralysis.

 

“Cora!” he surged forward, desperately shaking her shoulder, “Cora wake up!”

 

“Wha- Derek?” she sat up, blindly pushing his urgent hands away.

 

“Why,”-she was interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn- “Why are you waking me up?”

 

There was a split second, barely a moment, when her gaze was still sleep-addled and adorably confused, before her eyes snapped up in alarm and she was up and out of the bed in an instant, sniffing desperately at Derek’s neck.

 

“What? Derek I can’t- I can’t-” Derek didn’t manage to speak a word before Cora was stumbling back, keening and clutching at her head and chest.

 

“Derek I can’t feel-, oh god,” she sobbed, “It’s like half of me is gone, I can’t feel- It’s- _I’m-_ Oh _god_ -”

 

And with that she let loose a wail (it should have been a _howl,_ it should have been, but how could it?) that tore at Derek’s insides.

He tried to flash her his eyes, _packhomeAlphasafeAlphaAlphasafepackhome_ , but that just made it worse and the tears coursed from her eyes as she looked desperately between his eyes, as if they could somehow bring out her own, but the responding _packAlphahomesafe_ never came.

 

And so, feeling the loss of her wolf as keenly as knife in the heart, in the _pack,_ he did all that was left to him. He crushed her to his chest and held her while she cried.

 

 

 

Stiles pulled up outside Derek’s loft with perhaps a little less finesse than would have been ideal, but ideal would have to wait for now.

 

Alona was hopping out of the passenger seat, slamming the door in her haste, and he took a moment to reach into the backseat for his rucksack before doing the same, albeit more gently.

 

They raced across the parking lot, eager to pass on what they had learnt before time ran out, but were brought up short when they saw Cora –tear stained and distraught- carrying a trash bag down to the dumpsters outside the building.

 

Stiles was about to ask her what was wrong, but she spoke up before he got the chance.

 

“Don’t. Just-“ she looked on the verge of hysteria, “just go up so long, while I throw this away.”

 

And with that she hefted the black bag up and continued on her way to the dumpster.

 

Stiles paused, sharing a look with Alona, who appeared concerned but no wiser than he was, before they started up the stairs.

 

When they reached the top, Nala pulled open the sliding door to see Derek shaking Lydia, who was looking more angry than scared at his rough treatment.

 

“Stop that.” Alona snapped. To Stiles’ surprise, Derek abruptly let go of Lydia and turned towards them, a desperate look on his face.

 

“What did you find?” he implored, and Stiles couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped him. Derek’s gaze immediately snapped to him, so he started sharing.

 

“Okay so the Dullahan is something called a harbinger of death, but they differ from other harbingers like Banshees and the Bean Sidhe, because those can only predict death.”

 

“But the Dullahan,” Alona picked up, “he’s a headless horseman that rides around, and wherever he stops, that’s where someone will die.”

 

“That’s pretty much where all similarities with other harbingers end.” Stiles interjected, “Whilst Banshees often align themselves with a certain family –singing at their funerals, warning them of disaster- the Dullahan almost completely avoids humans.”

 

“Not in a bunny-avoids-wolf way either. Apparently they’re part of the Aos Sí, which is like fae and stuff? And they’re affiliated with the Unseelie court? Which is like dark? Basically what this all boils down to is that they are extremely private, and vengeful about what they consider an invasion of privacy.”

Derek and Lydia were both starting to look impatient, and Stiles was about to carry on and attempt to clarify when Alona cut in.

 

“They’ll mark you for death if they catch you watching them, which is what we know happened to Cora.”

 

“Precisely.” Stiles breathed, before Alona continued.

 

“So how long do we need to protect her before it wears off?” Lydia asked evenly.

 

“We can’t,” Derek looked about ready to kill Stiles for that, so he quickly continued, “If the Dullahan speaks your name then you die instantly.”

 

“But it’s headless-” Derek started, though Stiles could tell from the look on his face that even Derek himself knew he was clutching at straws.

 

Stiles barely heard Nala’s answer as he watched Derek’s face morph, as if in slow motion, from desperation and disbelief into snarling rage.

 

The roar he turned onto Lydia was so loud that Stiles could feel it in the soles of his feet, and his ears were buzzing in a way that meant he barely caught Lydia’s reedy apology.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to stop. I’m sorry,” she clenched her trembling hands into fists, “I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t even know the song-”

 

Stiles’ stomach dropped.

 

He turned to Alona, meeting her gaze and seeing the abject horror he was feeling reflected in his own face spreading across hers.

 

 

“Derek?” she croaked, though her glassy eyes hadn’t left Stiles’ yet, “Derek, where’s Cora?”

 

Stiles finally looked at Derek as the silence stretched and they waited for an answer, his eyes widening as he seemed to gaze into the middle distance, searching for a far-away sound.

 

“She’s-”

 

“Why?” Lydia interrupted him, her eyes wet and round, as if she already knew the answer. Perhaps she did.

 

“Because,” Stiles’ throat felt tight and his mouth dry as he tried to push the explanation out verbatim, “Because _yet hear banshee’s keening ye can, know death advance upon thine clan_.”


	11. Tears of an Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, a heart-stopping scream tore through the air, and like emerging from cold water, the sights and sounds of the bustling main street came into focus. It was jarring and disorientating, and Alona looked to Stiles -who was standing right behind her, looking over her shoulder at something- to anchor her.
> 
> But one look at his eyes, and she knew he was seeing something much worse.

The icy air roaring through the open windows of the Camaro was making Alona's eyes water, and the tears that escaped the borders of her lashes were pushed over across her temples and into her hairline by the chilling wind. Their cold trails begged to be wiped away, but Alona felt paralysed in her seat. Her hands clasped tidily in her lap, she couldn't seem to find a way to move as Derek kept taking deep lungfuls of the air, trying to track the deep scent of _nothingness_ that wound its way through the warehouse district and towards the town centre.  
  
Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her dry mouth, and every time she tried to swallow her throat seemed to lodge around something unnameable. It felt almost as if she was choking on all the things  she couldn't say, things like _I don't know what to do_ - _Derek I'm so scared_ \- and _Cora is going to die_. Hardest of all, really, _Derek I'm so sorry I let you down_.  
  
But she couldn't say any of these things, least of all to Derek -who seemed to be hanging on  to sanity by a rapidly unravelling thread.  
  
When Derek suddenly pulled a hard right and slammed on the brakes, she feared that thread had snapped. The hard thunk as Stiles' head connected with a back-seat window abruptly reminded her of his and Lydia's presence, though she didn't even glance at them whilst she struggled with her seatbelt as Derek leapt from the car.  
  
When she finally managed to stagger out of the vehicle, she looked around frantically for a glimpse of Derek's distinct form, and only just caught sight of him disappearing around a building at the end of the street.  
  
Taking off after him in a run, Alona rounded the corner onto the deserted main street.  
She heard the twin footsteps of Stiles and Lydia come to a stop behind her, but when she turned to ask them where the hell everybody was on a Saturday lunchtime, there was no one behind her.  
  
In fact, there was not a soul in sight.  
  
The only movement came in the form of the mist, rolling in through the northern mouth of the street, and the fallen leaves being dragged along the pavement by a phantom wind.  
The sigh of the cold wind as it brushed her skin and the scrape of the dead leaves scrabbling over the concrete paving were the only sounds.  
  
The eerie hush felt stifling, reminding her of standing in misty ruins in Ireland, as if her very vitality was an affront to the dilapidated stone walls surrounding her . Her heartbeat too loud, her warm breaths too disturbing.  
The short hairs on her nape and the back of her arms prickled with the sense that there was absolutely no-one there in that deserted town, but she was certain she wasn't alone. She felt the presence of something _other_ lurking nearby, the terrifying whinny of a horse drawing her attention to the misty mouth of the street.  


She saw nothing but the still and empty main road.  
  
The sound of hooves on Tarmac echoed off the buildings like gunshots, and Alona felt sick with fear as the sound drew closer and the road remained empty of all but the mist, which swum around her ankles with all the chill of the Styx.  
  
Suddenly, a heart-stopping scream tore through the air, and like emerging from cold water, the sights and sounds of the bustling main street came into focus. It was jarring and disorientating, and Alona looked to Stiles -who was standing right behind her, looking over her shoulder at something- to anchor her.  
  
But one look at his eyes, and she knew he was seeing something much worse.  
  
She turned, as if in slow motion, just in time to see Derek crumble to his knees beside the bloody form of his sister.  
  
It felt almost automatic, how Alona's eyes drifted from Cora's misshapen body on the ground to the huge concrete pipe still slowly rolling away from the teetering truck, putting together the pieces of what had happened.  
  
She heard but didn't register the thud as the truck rocked back onto its axis, just like she could make out the sound of the driver jumping out of his cab and insisting that the pipe had been secured by the thick chains lying at her feet, but none of it mattered.  
  
Not when Derek's trembling hands were trying to pull his sister's broken body towards him, attempting weakly to lift her unbalanced torso to him, clutching desperately at her shoulders as her head lolled back at an impossible angle.  
  
Alona had to swallow drily and block out the sound of some bystander emptying their stomach at the sight of Cora's face gazing backwards at her.  
  
The vision of Cora's face seared into her mind, Alona thought she'd never again be able to close her eyes without seeing it dancing across the blackness. The cheeks and nose flattened and burst, her lips dissected by two rows of broken and bloody teeth, her jaw bone poking through her cheek like Legos splitting through a plastic bag.  
  
She had to clench her eyes shut at the look of utter _devastation_   on Derek's face, tears spilling silently over his cheeks.  
  
"We-" her eyes opened at Derek's hollow voice.  
  
"We have to move her-" he tugged ineffectually at her rag-doll form, " we have to- before anyone sees."  
  
A sob caught in Alona's throat as she stumbled towards him and his desperate eyes caught hers.  
  
"They can't see her heal." he pleaded.  
  
"They can't-"  
  
"They won't." Stiles' voice was soft, but the slightly withdrawn look on his face sent hot anger surging through Alona.  
  
He was saved from her wrath by the ambulance roaring to a stop beside them.  
  
She watched silently as the paramedics swarmed out of the vehicle, asking Derek to step aside as they approached Cora's body with their equipment. To her surprise, he did.  
  
His hands clenched by his sides whilst his face remained slack and vulnerable as he answered the questions the men kept throwing his way as they worked on Cora.  
Alona came to stand by Derek, who showed no signs of acknowledging her presence beside him, and gently covered his steely fist with her hand.  
  
He turned his face to her at the contact, and when the paramedics -having finished loading the gurney into the ambulance- asked who would be accompanying them to the hospital, his pale eyes met Alona's and he shook his head in response to her unspoken question.  
  
"Okay," she reassured him, "I'll wait for you at home."  
  
She felt like she should do something, offer some sort of supportive gesture, but she came up blank and before she knew it, he had nodded mutely and climbed into the closing doors of the vehicle.  
  
The atmosphere inside the Camaro as Alona drove Stiles and Lydia back to the loft, where the jeep was still parked, was silent as the grave. Silent as the grave Cora would be sleeping in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tears of an Angel by RyanDan:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FULPliwzjcs
> 
> I am so so sorry! This was done almost a month ago and I didn't realise that I hadn't posted it (again).  
> So you'll be getting two chapters in short succession. I am very sorry for both. Please don't hate me.
> 
> B  
> xx


	12. Cover Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Derek, I'm -"
> 
> "-Don't." he barked, cutting off her apology before she could even form it.
> 
> Instead she nodded slowly, before asking gently, "Okay, what should I do?"
> 
> "Get the fuck away from me."
> 
>  
> 
> Very NSFW

Alona was midway through her third consecutive cigarette when she heard the shrill ringing of Derek's mobile cut through the still evening air.  
  
She flicked away the remaining half of her cigarette -she didn't really need nicotine poisoning on top of all the rest anyway- and headed inside. The ringing mobile was still on the counter, where Derek had forgotten it in his haste to reach his sister, the screen's light reflecting off the ceramic of the cold mug of coffee beside it.  
  
Cora's coffee.  
  
Because Derek always made two (or lately, three) cups of coffee when he and Cora woke up at the crack of dawn. She knew it belonged to Cora because nobody else required the same ridiculous volume of milk, to the extent that Derek had to heat milk especially so that Cora wouldn't complain about her coffee being cold.  
  
Alona grabbed the phone and answered it without looking at the caller ID, gathering the mug and heading to the kitchen as a voice came through.  
  
"Derek, I believe I have news for you."  
  
It took Alona a moment to place the voice, but she replied after minimal hesitation.  
  
"Hi Alan, I'm sorry this is Alona, Derek is out right now..." _seeing to his dead sister_.  
  
"Oh?" Deaton sounded entirely unsurprised. Perhaps he knew exactly where Derek was after all.  
  
Alona poured the cold coffee down the drain as he continued.  
  
"You'll be glad to hear I'm back from Europe-" she hadn't even realised he'd _gone_ to Europe, "- and I come bearing the means to return you to your own time."  
  
The mug made a loud clank as she set it down in the sink. She'd almost completely forgotten that she didn't belong here, with Derek.  
  
"Oh." her voice was barely more than a whisper.  
  
"You'll pass it on to Derek?"  
  
Alona was too shocked to do much more than agree and listen to the click as Alan ended the call. She eventually lowered the phone from her ear and walked into the living room, catching sight of Derek standing in the centre of the big space.  
  
"Derek-" it was startled out of her, and her voice betrayed so much more than she wanted. She wondered if he could hear the heartbreak as easily as she could.  
  
He didn't reply, just mutely nodded his acknowledgement of her presence.  
  
She approached him cautiously, guilt burning a hole in her stomach as she came to a stop before him.  
  
"Derek, I'm -"  
  
"-Don't." he barked, cutting off her apology before she could even form it.  
  
Instead she nodded slowly, before asking gently, "Okay, what should I do?"  
  
"Get the fuck away from me." she didn't even have time to smother the hurt his biting words brought before he continued.  
  
"Everyone near me gets hurt, I kill them all-" the self loathing in his voice was too much so she threw her arms around him, feeling the rage and heartbreak that stiffened his muscles until it felt like she was holding little more than marble in her arms.  
  
She shouldn't have been surprised as she was when his big arms crushed her to his chest, as if by holding her tightly enough he could stop her from leaving him too.  
  
It was a battle, in that moment, not to think about the phone call from Deaton.  
  
Instead she turned her face into his neck, choking out a breath at the thought of all the emotion contained within their arms. She pressed a soft kiss, there where her breath had rushed over the delicate skin of his throat, and almost didn't hear the whine that tangled itself with a moan at the contact.  
  
 _Oh_ , she thought, remembering all the faceless strangers she'd taken to bed -hoping to lose her self in pleasurable oblivion- after she lost the court case for the custody her sisters. _Oh_.  
  
Maybe a little oblivion would give Derek some of the release he needed.  
  
She hummed a little, as she nosed up the column of his neck -her parted lips tingling at the scrape of his beard- and hoped that somehow he understood what she was offering.  
  
She should have counted on him to understand her wordless offer completely, because the next thing he was burying a hand in her hair and pulling her head back.  
  
It was astounding, how her blood heated when his eyes locked with hers. But even that had nothing on the fire that roared to life the moment he pulled her into a biting kiss.  
  
His mouth forced hers open, entirely without preamble, and his hot tongue dove mercilessly after her own. She couldn't keep down the moan his teeth tore out of her as they closed over her lip, one big hand making its way down to grab her arse -squeezing and tugging deliciously painfully as he used the grip to grind her hips into his.  
  
His erection felt hot and dangerous as it ground against her mons, and her heart almost gave out when he pushed her away from him. Broad hands turned her roughly, shoving her towards the bed.  
  
"Take your clothes off." he growled out, and Alona felt a rush of helpless heat bloom between her legs at the command. Obedient, She walked away from him, towards the bed, pulling off her shirt as she went.  
  
The cold air of the loft on her heated skin served to clear her mind enough that she was able to make a show of removing her bra, glancing coyly over her shoulder as she reached behind her to undo the clasp, before looking him in the eye as she let it drop away.  
  
He held her gaze for a moment before his eyes dropped, his pupils blowing open at the partial view of her breasts. Satisfied that she really had his attention, she toed off her shoes and socks before undoing her jeans, bending at the waist to give him a full view as she slowly eased her jeans and her panties over the fullness of her arse and down her legs.  
  
She cried out at the sharp pain of a bite flaring over the soft flesh of her rear and she whipped around even as the pain dulled into a hot glow that slicked her core.  
  
Derek was crouching right behind her, looking entirely unaffected save the bitten red of his lips and the erection straining against the fabric of his jeans.  
  
Alona's heart thudded heavily in her chest as Derek stripped off his shirt then almost angrily shoved off his jeans. He straightened before her,  aggressively unashamed in his nakedness, like a sculpture made entirely of anger, beauty and desire.  
  
"Turn over."  
  
Alona complied, kneeling with her back to him, but fell forward onto her forearms at the warm hand planted between her shoulder blades.  
  
"Derek-"  
  
"Like this." the hand on her back left, and Alona barely smothered a whimper as warm hands pushed at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs until she spread her knees a little wider. The action turned her hips, parting the moist lips over her core and leaving her exposed to him. It felt good, filthy, _a little like oblivion_ when thick fingers slipped between her folds and ran over her swollen clit, but that didn't do anything to stop the surprising pain-pleasure-pain that tore through her as Derek lined himself up and drove the unforgiving length of his cock into her somewhere between one heartbeat and the next.  
  
It punched the breath clean out her lungs, and she never really caught it again  as Derek pulled out before ramming in again, setting a brutal rhythm that made Alona fight not to fall forward at the sheer pleasure and force of it.  
  
It hurt, of course it did, because Alona hadn't really been ready and Derek -though not huge- wasn't exactly small either. But it was hard to isolate the pain from the pleasure crashing through her in waves as the head of Derek's cock drove into her g-spot again and again, and the sweet blinding pulses of ecstasy were winding her tighter and tighter and brought her closer and closer to snapping.  
  
She turned her upper body, wanting to look at Derek when she came, but the sight that met her eyes instantly and entirely unraveled the coil inside her until all that was left was the slapping of skin on skin and the feeling of a dick moving inside her.  
  
Because unlike her,  Derek didn't look lost in ecstasy or like he was on the brink of orgasm. Though his body moved like a work of art, his sweat slicked muscles contracting beautifully as he fucked into her, Alona couldn't help but look at the desperation and frustration governing his face as he tried to change the angle for the nth time and think that this was the saddest sight she'd ever seen.  
  
"Derek-"  
  
He didn't even pause. God, had she let him get that far into his own head? She'd hoped to give him oblivion, but clearly he needed more than that.  
  
"Derek." he finally stilled as she covered his hand , which was gripping her waist almost painfully, with her own.  
  
His eyes met hers and she wanted to gasp out a sob at the naked _devastation_ she saw in them.  
  
"Let me." it was barely more than a whisper, and he surprised her by going along easily as she guided him to sit on the edge of the bed.  
  
"I've got you." she breathed into his hairline as she swung one leg over so that she could straddle him, before lining him up with her entrance and sinking down.  
  
Placing her arms around his neck, she pulled him to her as she started to move, rolling her hips in an even rhythm.  
  
She could see his face breaking even as he bucked up, doing his best to hold the heartbreak at bay by trying to return to the earlier frenzied pace.  
But she just tightened her arms around him, drawing his head to cradle it against her chest even as her hips continued working. But it was on a downwards roll that she felt him slipping partially out of her, and she realised that he had gone soft just in time to feel a sob wrack Derek's broad shoulders.  
  
"Okay, Derek," he tried to hold back another sob but it broke through anyway, a wet, broken sound smothered against her skin, "okay."  
  
Her soft words seemed to break the dam, and all his pain flooded out of him in ragged gasps of breath and cracking cries .  
  
"I've got you," she murmured, ignoring the tears and saliva and probably snot running down her chest as his heaving sobs gave way to keening wails that sounded eerily like the mournful howl of a wolf, running her hands slowly over his back, up and down, up and down.  
  
She held him, letting him weep into her until eventually he quieted, turning his face towards her for the first time in who knew how long. His eyes were red and puffy, though they were returning to normal before her very eyes, and his entire face was wet with the evidence of his grief.  
  
His gaze was clear though, so Alona eased out of his lap and with gentle touches guided him until he was lying on his side in the centre of the big double bed. It didn't even occur to her to take the couch as she slid in opposite him, swinging a leg over his and trying for all she could to hold him with her entire body.  
  
They lay like that for an immeasurable time, listening to the sounds of the loft around them and the hush of their breathing, before Derek broke the silence.  
  
"You-" he cleared his throat of the hoarseness and looked up, his face inches from hers.  
  
"You didn't have to do that."  
  
Alona felt trapped in his pale eyes, as if he could see into her very soul, and she wondered if he could read in her gaze what she really meant as she answered, "Yes, I did."  
  
He moved towards her then, hesitating only when his lips were a fraction away from hers, as if he wasn't sure if she would want this now, want him now. But she didn't move away, and the realisation hit her like a sledgehammer; Alona didn't think there would ever come a day when she wouldn't want Derek Hale.  
  
And so when he kissed her, his mouth so soft and vulnerable, she was helpless to do anything other than kiss him back.  
  
This time, it was slow and powerful. There was no desperation, no white-hot bliss pulsing through her. They stayed on their sides, curled into one another, kissing and breathing each other in as they rocked together. Derek's hands caressing broad strokes into her warm skin and the sole of Alona's foot pressing against the back of a hairy calf as they moved.  
  
Their pleasure built slowly, like the tide coming in, and when Nala's orgasm broke she was swallowed whole by the aching intensity of it. Her soft cry was almost entirely swallowed by Derek's wet mouth, and her hands tightened on his shoulders as her body tensed against his.  
  
It was a time before Derek came, but Alona didn't mind, and the vulnerable little cry he gave as he spilled inside her was so precious and private that Alona wanted to lock it up inside herself forever.  
  
After Derek pulled out, his spent cock resting sticky and gross and utterly perfect against her thigh, Nala began to hear the siren song of sleep calling to her. Given the choice, she would have stayed awake and enjoyed their intimate little haven a while longer, but as it was sleep snuck up on her anyway and soon she was out like a light.  
  
  
Derek woke up with his mouth dry and heart pounding. He looked at Alona sleeping sweetly in his arms and had to smother the urge to shove her off the bed, and only managed to succeed in doing so by untangling himself from her and turning his back on her as he rose and dressed in his discarded jeans.  
  
He pulled his shirt on as he walked to the large windows, gazing at the waning moon as he dwelled on his dream.  
  
In the dream, he'd watched as a sleeping Derek was cradled by Alona. At first, it'd seemed tender and sweet, but then Alona rose, kissing an oblivious Derek on the cheek and whispering, "I've got you sweetie."  
  
It felt sickening, yet inevitable, as she rose and padded into the kitchen, emerging once more with cooking oil and a lighter.  
  
When Derek opened his eyes as the sleeping Derek, flames rose high around him on the bed and heat licked at his sides. He could barely make out her voice over the roaring of the fire, but he just caught her  laughing at him and taunting, "You didn't really think you'd have me did you?"  
  
He could only sob as she continued, "Oh sweetie. Didn't you know I was always going to go?"  
  
Her heels clacked loudly as she walked away and the flames overtook him.  
  
And now, as he stood facing the cold dark night, Derek couldn't believe he'd thought he could have her. Or rather, hadn't remembered why he _couldn't_ have her.  
  
His mind went to Deaton's phone call, which he'd overheard upon entering the loft, and thought that Alona was always going to leave eventually. He'd known that, even hoped for that at one point, from the very moment they realised what she had done to arrive in beacon hills.  
  
Perhaps it was best that she leave now, short in the wake of loosing Cora. Derek had learnt, after all, just how to mourn multiple people at once. Boyd's death had hit so hard because loosing Erica had brought them together, made them lean on each other in a way they hadn't needed to until then.  
  
If she stayed any longer, Derek knew, they'd make love again as they had that night, and Derek would grow more and more dependant on her special brand of gentleness and strength.  
  
The fact of the matter was, Derek couldn't afford to need Alona anymore than he already did.  
  
"Derek?"  
  
Derek turned to Alona, who was looking at him in confusion from the bed, her eyes raking over his clothed form.  
  
"What are you doing up? Come back to -"  
  
"Get dressed." She looked shocked at his brusque command, but her face shut down at what came out of his mouth next.  
  
"We're going to Deaton."  
  
She looked calm and aloof as she rose from the bed, but Derek could smell the hurt and rage pouring out of her from across the room. She dressed perfunctorily, and though she didn't cover her nakedness, Derek didn't miss the way her heart beat  faster as she turned and quickly pulled on the very clothes she'd so seductively eased out of scant hours before.  
  
  
  
She didn't say a single word to him until they pulled up before the clinic, and even then it was a polite and clipped thanks for his hospitality.  
  
Deaton didn't comment on the strained tension he clearly noticed between them, and Derek could see Alona was grateful for it.  
  
"Mix a pinch of this into a tea." the vet said, handing her a jar the size of a fist.  
  
"It doesn't taste like much, but it'll serve to nullify your magic as long as it's in your system, which should be around three months, though I recommend overlapping doses by about a week to avoid any mishaps."  
  
"What is this stuff?" Alona asked, eyeing the fibrous mixture curiously.  
  
"Rowan leaves, which are a natural magical barrier to contain your influence -your spark, salt to tie the will to the body, and the ground keratin of a magical null are the main ingredients."  
  
" _Keratin?_ " Alona exclaimed, "You mean this has some guy's ground up _nails_ in here?"  
  
"Not just 'some guy'," Deaton said slowly, as if talking to an idiot, "This is the ground essence of the only true null, a person who annihilates any magical item they come into contact with, to have ever existed in the history of the world."  
  
"You're making me drink a dead guy's nails?"  
  
"No?" Deaton said, perplexed, " He lives with his sister in Germany."  
  
Whilst Alona gaped at Deaton, Derek voiced the question nagging at him.  
  
"If it annihilates magic, why must she keep taking it?"  
  
Deaton sighed.  
  
"I believe that Alona's ability to teleport comes down to two things. The first is that she, like your friend Stiles, has the particular brand of willpower that can catalyse magical reactions. This in itself is not that rare amongst humans -though the reactivity thereof does vary."  
  
"My theory is that something occurred which triggered a will so powerful, that, coupled with her natural spark, she jumped to a whole other time and location. Since this was not likely a conscious decision, she has retained the ability to teleport but is unable to control when it happens."  
  
"All that being said," Deaton pulled up a cup of soil and wordlessly held it out for Alona to spit, "an experienced practitioner will be able to trigger a jump using a specific rune and by getting you to focus on the moment you wish to return to."  
  
"Since her spark stems out of will, it is perpetually renewing. Now, theoretically, since her body is a magical null point and her will is bound to her body, she should never teleport again. However, magic is not an exact science, so it's better that she keep taking it just in case."  
  
It wasn't until Alona turned her back on him and Deaton painted the muddy symbol on her forehead that Derek realised what was happening. Though it had been his idea that she go, he suddenly wanted desperately to beg her to stay. He reached out to grab Alona, convince her that she should stay in Beacon Hills with him, but he moved too late and his fist closed over empty air..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover Me Up by Jason Isbell:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdwnGG29Upw
> 
> This is the second of five scenes, which formed my first ideas leading up to the initial conceptualisation of this story, so I really hope I've done it justice.
> 
> I'm sorry, this is all pretty unhappy, but I'm afraid to say that whilst things will take an upwards turn for some of our characters, they will take a drastic nosedive for others over the next few chapters. All that being said, we're nearing the end of Act One! Yay!
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> B  
> xx


	13. Your Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't care or understand enough of what they were saying to listen in, but as he pulled away he couldn't help but overhear the female's reply.
> 
> "Sie soll schon hier sein. Das Nogitsune kommt."
> 
>  
> 
> -END OF ACT ONE-

Derek sat in his loft, trying not to think of anything at all.  
Isaac and Peter were there too, their presence on his couch already starting to mute the scent of Alona that permeated the leather. Derek couldn't tell if he was angry about it or relieved.  
  
The loft was silent save for their heartbeats, and it only served to remind Derek that Cora's rhythm was supposed to be there, filling out the sound. But it was conspicuously absent, and their drum beat seemed off-kilter without it.  
  
"I'm going to join Scott's pack."  
  
Isaac's voice dragged Derek out of his stupor. Derek nodded mutely as Peter muttered something about none if Scott's pack being dead.  
  
With that said, Isaac rose gravely and made his way out. Derek didn't look up or even notice the sound of the door closing behind him.  
  
He felt so damn _angry_.  
  
He felt so damn angry he felt sick with it. Beacon Hills had stolen everything from him, from his family. Generations of Hales had given everything to this town. Some had even given up their lives to protect it and its inhabitants. The Hales had brought stability and strength to this hellmouth of a town, and it had repayed them by killing all but those of them who had actually maybe deserved it.  
  
He fucking _hated_ Beacon Hills.  
  
Everywhere he went there were reminders of his family. The record shop Laura used to blow all her pocket money in. The ice-cream parlour Aunt Susan had worked in. The street corner where his parents had met.  
  
Only now there was no dad to point it out, to say _that's the luckiest spot in Beacon Hills -I met the most beautiful woman in the world on that corner._ _  
_  
He needed to get out. Out of Beacon Hills, out of California. Maybe even out of the country.  
  
He turned to tell as much to Peter, but Derek was alone.  
  
 _And wasn't that the truth_.  
  
  
  
  
Derek stiffened as two sets of footsteps approached him, coming to a stop a few meters behind him.  
  
He finished what he was doing, waiting for the tank to fill before replacing the gas cap and returning the nozzle to the pump.  
  
"Derek Hale."  
  
He took his time paying at the pump, throwing his wallet into the passenger seat before turning to the strangers behind him.  
  
 _Strangers_ was accurate. The pair facing him seemed other-worldly.  
  
A man and a woman, both over six feet tall, stared at him with coal-black eyes set in alabaster-pale faces. Their hair was so light it was close to invisible against their pallid skin.  
  
"Derek Hale?" the woman repeated, as if she really needed him to confirm his identity.  
  
"Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it. Take it to Scott McCall."  
  
That was answer enough apparently.  
  
"Derek Hale, where is the marked girl?"  
  
Derek scoffed. Whatever shit was currently befalling Beacon Hills, he was damn sure he wasn't going to stick around to see it.  
  
"I don't know any 'marked girls'." he replied tersely.  
  
"No, that's not true. Where is the marked girl?" she had a slight European accent, and it grated on Derek' nerves.  
  
He growled at the apparent accusation.

 "I have no idea what you're talking about." he said with finality, walking across to the driver-side door, and smoothly sliding in.

 _Vielleicht haben wir zu früh gekommen_ \- he heard the man say as he started the car and shifted into first.  
  
He didn't care or understand enough of what they were saying to listen in, but as he pulled away he couldn't help but overhear the female's reply.  
  
 _Sie soll schon hier sein. Das Nogitsune kommt_.  
  
  
  
  
His dad's cell was ringing, but the sheriff  was actively ignoring it.

He was making pancakes -even though it was three o'clock in the morning and his shift started at eight.

It was thee o'clock in the morning and Stiles was having trouble swallowing around the guilt sitting bitter on his tongue.  
  
"This isn't the first time this has happened, is it?" his dad set the pancakes down in front of where Stiles was sitting and trying to subtly count his fingers under the table.  
  
"Uhhhh," Stiles' throat hurt when he spoke, and he had to swallow a few times before he was certain his voice wouldn't crack.  
  
"Don't lie to me Stiles." his dad's voice was stern, even though Stiles really hadn't been planning to lie to him. Now that his dad had mentioned it though, lying did seem like a pretty good option. There was a distinct correlation between high stress-levels and heart problems.  
  
Before he could say anything, his dad's mobile started ringing  again. His dad simply silenced the call and then switched his phone off, sliding it to the side with a significant look to Stiles as he did so.  
  
"How long has this been going on?"  
  
Stiles sighed, rubbing at the scratchy soreness of his eyes.  
  
"It's only happened once before this. The night before last."  
  
His dad opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the house phone ringing.  
  
"Dammit. It has to be serious if they're calling the landline."  
  
He rose to answer the phone, and Stiles waited until the ringing stopped to creep closer and listen to his dad's end of the conversation.  
  
There's a lengthy pause before he hears his dad speak.  
  
"That far out? That's barely our jurisdiction. Have you got the hiker? It seems a little far fetched that he was taking a stroll at-" another pause," -jesus three in the morning -especially with our record of animal attacks."  
  
His dad grew silent, listening to whatever the other person was saying.  
  
"I see. Any idea on whether our Does are going to make it?" his dad sighed heavily into the phone.  
  
"Okay I'm on my way now."  
  
His dad rounded the corner so fast that Stiles couldn't even pretend he hadn't listened to every word.  
  
He opened his mouth to start bargaining when his dad held up a finger to silence him.  
  
"Under no circumstances will you be leaving this house tonight. I swear Stiles, if you disobey me on this there will be hell to pay."  
  
"But dad-"  
  
"No!" his dad cut him off sharply.  


"If I think it's in any way related, I will call Derek in as my expert on the supernatural okay?"  
  
Stiles fumed silently, but eventually jerked his head in a nod.  
  
If Stiles' dad called Derek, then that damn werewolf had better fucking pick up. If anything, _anything_ , happened to his dad -Stiles would go on a rampage.  
  
  
  
  
Alona found herself thinking of Beacon Hills, of _Derek_ , almost every waking moment from the second she landed in her garden -the smell of cigarette smoke still hanging in the air- to the hours she spent on the train making her way to officer training.  
  
When she got there, one of her first actions after unpacking her small suitcase was to write a letter to Stiles. She had promised herself she would.  
It was hard though. She wasn't really used to writing letters, and she had to start over at least three times because she kept asking about Derek and then deciding she didn't want to bring him up. The only problem was that she really, desperately, did.  
  
She was surprised though, to find that that all came to an abrupt end as soon as training started. Sleep deprived, exhausted and cold, she was the happiest she'd ever been. She had long-since given up ever finding a sense of belonging, but that only made it all the sweeter when she realised that she didn't feel like an outsider to these people. Sure, they were filthy and crass and considered disobeying the rules of the military -whether it be mis-ironing your uniform or pissing on the queen herself- sacrilege tantamount to selling your soul to the devil. But then again it was not much time at all until -it was a jolt to realise- she was no different.  
  
There was no room amongst all that to waste precious time and energy pining for a man she'd left a thousand miles and two years behind her.  
  
Of course, thoughts of him did sometimes leap unbidden into her mind. In the empty arid hours waiting around for the next adrenaline-fuelled fire-fight in Iraq, or peaceful moments lying on a hammock beneath the purple-blossomed jacaranda trees in Pretoria, or looking out over the twinkling city of Prague in the early hours of the morning, thoughts of him snuck up on her. Where was he now? Was he happy? Had he found somebody to love, or was he still trying to shoulder his way through existence all alone?  
  
She found herself trying not to wonder.

 

 

-END OF ACT ONE-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Ghost by Greg Laswell:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DejH3qnhQrA
> 
> [Man this song makes me feel ultra sterek-y, I don't really know why.]
> 
> I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long, but I basically rearranged the entire chronology for the rest of the fic? I realised that certain parts of the plot made more sense at different times, which meant that people would sometimes know more/less about what was going on in Beacon Hills and I had to change quite a few details to make the whole thing make sense. It turns out, when you leave such a vast number of breadcrumbs for the endgame, it becomes a bit of a nightmare if you decide to rehash your route :/  
> Anyways, END OF ACT ONE WOOHOO!
> 
> As always, comments and theories are welcomed, as well as any critique you'd like to give.
> 
> B  
> xx


	14. The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -ACT TWO-
> 
> "You should not be here, Derek Hale."
> 
>  
> 
> Derek startled at the use of his name. He hadn't heard it once in the last four months -hadn't been around anyone who would know to use it.
> 
>  
> 
> "Leave the boy be, Baba." a small wiry man emerged from the dark wooden doorway.
> 
>  
> 
> He approached them and shook Derek's hand as he spoke, "You must forgive our abuela-"
> 
>  
> 
> "Ay no," the old woman butted in, swatting at the younger man, "We are the ones who most forgive him-" she looked Derek in the eye, and it felt like she was sizing up his soul, "for bringing his toxic anger and hate here."
> 
>  
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING PLEASE SEE END NOTES

 

Stiles sat by his dad's scanner, doodling on an empty envelope as he listened to the business-like back and forth between the officers and switchboard.

 

His dad was on patrol tonight, and Stiles couldn't shake the nail-biting anxiety that any second someone was going to find another body left by the nogitsune. It was irrational really -they'd killed the nogitsune over a month before- but he just couldn't shake the fear that it wasn't really over. That evil was still lurking in Beacon Hills.

 

Sometimes he'd be walking down Main Street, and the smell of damp earth would fill his nostrils. Or he'd sit in school and Lydia would shiver, this full-body shudder that wracked her whole frame- and he'd remember joking to Allison once that someone must have walked over her grave. It didn't seem so funny anymore.

 

Not when Lydia tried to hide the look in her eyes that said _Allison's won't be the last grave we dig._

 

Sometimes it felt like there was some old evil hiding just around the corner, out of sight. Stiles couldn't only hope that they'd catch sight of it before it was too late. Then again, _perhaps the whole mess with the nogitsune is just messing with his head. Enjoy the peace while it lasts, man_.

 

_Thanks, Scotty. Very supportive_.

 

"All units, we have a 11-99 at Beacon Hills General, over."

 

Fuck, Stiles was pretty sure that 11-99 was an emergency code. He dropped his pen, grabbing his keys and heading for the door, praying his dad wasn't in trouble.

 

"All units, please be advised, subject is 417, over."

 

_Brandishing a weapon_.

 

He ran to his jeep.

 

 

Stiles burst through the hospital doors, almost knocking over a couple running for the exit. He just about avoided the collision, his eyes fixing instead on the carnage of the nurses station.

 

Four deputies had their weapons out, pointing urgently at his dad. There was a moment where Stiles' stomach dropped, thinking that they were going to shoot his _dad_ , before he caught sight of the syringe pressed to his father's throat.

 

The deputies were shouting to drop the weapon, so loudly that Stiles had trouble hearing the woman -and he was pretty sure it was a woman, from what little he could see of her behind his dad's back- who seemed to be screaming something herself.

 

It became clearer the closer he moved, and only when he was close enough to catch the furious look his dad shot him -despite the air-filled syringe pressing into his jugular- that Stiles could make out what the hysterical woman was screaming.

 

"Good yeah on? Good yeah on? Good yeah?"

 

_What was wrong with her?_

There was a trail of blood leading from the end of the corridor to where his dad was standing, bending backwards as he tried to ease the pressure of the needle against the artery.

 

Stiles could only look on in horror as his dad took a minute step back, unable to look away as his boot slipped on small pool of blood forming below them and he stumbled, crashing back against the assailant.

 

The woman let out an agonised wail, staggering back as spots of blood appeared in the patterned-blue fabric of the hospital gown.

 

She seemed to sway under the onslaught of the pain, her eyes blinking slowly as if trying to clear her mind. She didn't seem to be having much luck though, and they all watched on helplessly as one of the spider-thin legs gave out under her, sending her crashing into a row of plastic-covered chairs and tearing another fractured scream from her throat.

 

Orderlies came running as the gaunt figure slumped, sliding to the floor and leaving a smear of orange on the furniture.

 

As soon as the hospital staff started moving the unconscious figure, bony limbs only appearing half-human, his dad came storming over.

 

"Stiles! What the hell are you doing here?" his dad demanded.

 

Stiles wiped away the bead of blood forming on his dad's neck, the red smear fascinating him as it grew sticky on the end of his index finger. Absently he replied, "11-99"

 

"Jesus," his dad cursed, rubbing his brow, "tell me you haven't been listening to the police scanner again."

 

"I have not been listening to the police scanner again."

 

"Oh Jeez-" his dad pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in exasperation.

 

"Stiles, what if it'd been a gunman?" his dad leaned in, lowering his voice, " What if it'd been _the oni?_ "

 

"Dad-" Stiles started, at a loss for the words to explain this, this overwhelming _responsibility_ he felt for all that had happened.

 

" _That's_ why I came."

 

His dad just looked lost, and Stiles grasped for the words.

 

"Dad, what if it'd been the oni?"

 

There was a beat of silence as he willed his dad to understand him, and his prayer seemed to be answered when his dad's face crumpled with pity.

 

"Oh son," his dad pulled him into a hug, "You have to stop thinking like that."

 

Stiles swallowed all his arguments. _But if I'd just closed the door- been strong enough to the close the goddamn door to my own fucking mind-_ his airway clogged with it all.

 

Someone cleared their throat.

 

"Sir?"

 

His dad pulled away, turning to face Parrish, who looked awkward at his own intrusion.

 

"That was our Jane Doe, from December..."

 

Some sort of silent communication was passing between the Sheriff and his deputy -Parrish's expression remaining indecipherable as his dad cast a not-so-subtle glance at Stiles.

That glance was usually some sort of codename for _Nogitsune,_ and just like that Stiles understood what had just passed between the two men.

 

In December Stiles had just started to unravel, and when this case had come in -this crazy girl- his dad had clearly decided that he needed to focus his attention on a different crazy showing up in Beacon Hills.

 

And if he didn't feel like shit before that...

 

"Alright," his dad sighed, "let's go take another look at those files."

 

Stiles' ears perked up at that. His dad  noticed the look on Stiles' face almost immediately, and quickly shut that one down.

 

"No. _No_."

 

"But dad-"

 

"No way. You are going home right now and studying for your econ exam."

 

Stiles flailed a little, but knew he wasn't going to win this fight tonight. Besides, he really did need to study for econ. It was tomorrow, and so far all he had to show for it was an inked-up envelope and a police scanner.

 

He was almost at the double doors when he heard his dad call after him.

 

"-And put my scanner away!"

 

 

 

Shifting the hire car into park -Derek had put the Camaro  in storage in San Francisco sometime in January- Derek took his time switching off the engine. He'd pulled into a clearing, and though he couldn't see any other creatures, he could hear the sound of a million heartbeats filling the twilight air as soon as he opened the car door.

 

The clearing remained suspiciously empty -not even insects clouded the air- as he made his way around to collect his bag, taking slow, measured steps as he went.

 

As Derek closed the trunk countless yellow eyes came into view, glowing at him in the low evening light. Swinging the duffel he'd just retrieved over his shoulder, he stepped clear of the Camaro, carefully keeping his stance open and silencing the defensive growl that was pushing at the back of his throat.

 

The only visible building was a medium-sized hut -though the scents of woodsmoke drifting in from the east attested to the fact that there were more homes nearby. The hut seemed entirely natural amongst the thick rainforest surrounding the clearing. Whilst Derek was still eyeing the only blue set of lights -unable to distinguish their owner through the thick foiliage- an old woman emerged from the doorway.

 

Her skin had the colour and texture of old leather, and when she spoke her voice trembled with age.

 

"You should not be here, Derek Hale."

 

Derek startled at the use of his name. He hadn't heard it once in the last four months -hadn't been around anyone who would know to use it.

 

"Leave the boy be, Baba." a small wiry man emerged from the dark wooden doorway.

 

He approached them and shook Derek's hand as he spoke, "You must forgive our abuela-"

 

"Ay no," the old woman butted in, swatting at the younger man, "We are the ones who most forgive him-" she looked Derek in the eye, and it felt like she was sizing up his soul, "for bringing his toxic anger and hate here."

 

The small man just tsked and waved his hand at her.

 

"Stop it. You know you grow to love him anyways."

 

The stout woman just turned away, muttering in Spanish under her breath. _What she knew was that he was going to be a pain in her ass._

 

"Just ignore her," the little man turned and headed towards the tree line, "We must take you to the Alpha."

 

Derek followed, surprised to find multiple bodies emerging to join them as they traipsed in single file through the thick rainforest.

 

The night air was dense with the noise of thousands of life forms living on top of each other. It was alternately thrilling and nerve-wracking, countless too-shrill  cries enticing the urge to hunt.

 

He watched cautiously as blue eyes appeared once again, flickering in and out of sight as their owner emerged and came into view.

 

The young girl came to walk close beside Derek, a challenging look overcoming her round face, as if she was daring Derek to ask her how she got them.

The expression reminded him sharply of Alona -and he hadn't travelled over a thousand miles just to come and think of her here. So instead of meeting her gaze, he lengthened his stride and drew away. Or tried to, since the stocky girl just skipped a little to catch him up.

 

"Don't do that." she huffed petulantly.

 

"Baba already told me that we are going to be friends."

 

"Oh yeah?" He didn't look up, even as he continued.

 

"And what else did Baba say? That I was going to stay forever and ever and we were all going to live happily ever after?"

 

He scoffed.

 

"Because I hate to be the one to tell you this, but happily ever after doesn't exist."

 

Cobalt eyes met his.

 

"You think I don't know that?"

 

"No," she huffed a little as he didn't slow his pace, "Baba said your sister  died, and that now you are alone because you pushed away the one who loved you. She said you were never supposed to run from your territory, and now you are lost."

 

Derek, taken aback -by the depth of the old seer's insight or by the frank delivery, he did not know- and struggled to form a response.

 

"It sounds to me like Baba loves the sound of her own voice."

 

The girl burst out laughing at that.

 

"She does! She could spend an hour telling you that it's going to rain in the morning."

 

"I am Maria," she stuck out a hand, seemingly satisfied that they were friendly enough now that they'd shared a joke at the expense of the old woman.

 

Derek debated with himself before reluctantly shaking it.

 

"Derek."

 

She smirked at him.

 

"Oh, I know."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alona had discovered a few things about herself, most of them not the sort of information she'd ever expected to know.

 

In Japan she'd learnt that she was allergic to jellyfish meat -if the flavourless, jelly-like substance could even be called that. In South Africa she'd realised that she was remarkably resistant to general anaesthetic when she'd undergone surgery for an abdominal stab wound. None of it was really life-altering information.

 

 

Then she found out that when she's hanging from a meat hook in a cold, damp room somewhere on the outskirts of Moscow, and her wrists barely bleed around the chains anymore, and she almost can't hold her body still enough against the man shoving his little prick - _it doesn't feel little though, it feels huge for the white-hot agony that rips through her with every thrust_ \- into her again and again and again - _God hasn't he come yet? How long until he's finished and she can hang and bleed in peace?_ \- that she doesn't reopen the wounds on her back for the nth time, and when her eyes are so swollen  she can hardly see out of them anymore, that it was really hard -almost harder than any of the rest of it- not to think of Derek.

 

She had to swallow around screaming his name, had to settle for just screaming instead. She had to tamp down brutally every time she wanted to call out to him - _helpHELPDEREKpleasehelpSTOPTHEMDerekPLEASE_ \- and every single time that she yearned for something to cling to, to find some sort of comfort in the memories of him, she brutally shoved all thoughts of him and of days at the fayre with her little sisters and of other warm, happy things far from her mind.

 

Because _The Comprehensive Guide on What To Do During Capture and Interrogation_ they had received during officer training had ended up being about three bullet points long.

 

1\. Everyone breaks eventually. Fact.

 

2.Try to convince your captor that they have successfully broken you and that you _really_ don't know anything, so that they'll stop before you prove #1 and end up singing like a canary in exchange for a cigarette and some paracetamol.

 

Alona had thought that the third point was maybe the most important to remember.

 

3\. Stay _the fuck away_ from your Happy Place.

 

Because if your mind was away in your happy place thinking about your mum's shepherds pie and that time you shagged your girlfriend at a _Kings of Leon_ concert, but your body was still in some shit-hole getting butt-fucked by Al-Qaeda on your fourth consecutive day without sleep, then not only would it throw into sharp relief just how much your anus was not designed to be dry-docked by some terrorist's small dick and how much it sucks that you're starting to hallucinate the sounds of rescue, but also once you were rescued (or escaped, or they just got sick of you and fobbed you off onto the Red Cross), you'd never be able to smell mince and mash again without throwing up and hyperventilating, and just the intro to _sex on fire_ would be enough to leave you crying in a foetal position facing the door, whilst your arsehole palpitates around an agony that you can't actually feel.

 

So, no Derek.

 

Instead she thought about the research project she had done on Cold War Germany when she was seventeen, about the hours of stifling boredom she had spent listening to her teachers drone on about simultaneous equations, the English civil war and the Ablative case endings in Latin. She thought about her least favourite places; Russia (she couldn't believe she had loved it once), public toilets and that cleaning cupboard under the stairs that led to her boarding school dorms that always gave her the heebie-jeebies when she walked past it (as well as a brutal attack of the itchy eyes because, for a cleaning cupboard,  it sure as hell wasn't _clean_. In fact, it was dusty as fuck. _Ugh_ ), to name but a few.

 

She got into in-depth discussions with Michael about the comparative brutality of Hockey versus Lacrosse in all-girls schools. Michael, _or Mikhail_ , had been undercover in St Petersburg when was captured about a week after Alona for being gay. But that was before one of the higher ups received information that he was a British spy (a lie that had been told by someone looking to move up in the organisation, he theorised, that had been unfortunately accurate) and then they really went to town on him.

 

They fucked him too, though they used a garishly glittery orange dildo -as if they didn't want to get his gay all over their STDs- and Alona was glad for the first time that they liked sticking their fingers into her cunt before they fucked her. Because, judging by the single glance of envy she had caught, once, when one of them had three fingers knuckle-deep in her, it was worse to just get a dildo (which was somewhat larger than all but one of the men- who was huge) just shoved in your arse.

 

They couldn't do much for each other -or anything at all really- when their abusers came.

According to the orders of the head guy (not the boss, that guy had only come to watch the proceedings once and had left without having uttered a word), Alona and Michael -they'd both given up their real names by that point- were never done over at the same time.

There was no real pattern to allow them to predict whose turn it would be when they heard the gut-clenching sound of boots on concrete drawing closer.

All they could do was pretend not to see or hear each other's screams and pleading, and then when the men left, wait patiently for the victim to get themselves together enough to pipe up, _"Do you know what I hate the most about Russia?"_

 

_The Metro, borscht, collecting mushrooms, the women, the men, the politicians, the strippers, shitty tips johns gave their strippers, johns, bad blowjobs, giving blowjobs to dirty men, dirty men who sat too close to you on the metro, the Metro..._

 

They mentioned everything. Even things they had maybe once loved, or things that didn't even really make sense. It just felt good to vent.

Eventually they ran out of things to hate in Russia and moved on to the British army.

Then they moved on to things they hated back home.

 

They had to stop that pretty quickly though, after Alona had said "I hate sad men with stubble and warm hands and beautiful eyes-" and her voice had cracked on the last word. 

 

Michael had looked her in the eye (the one that wasn't swollen shut) and said, "No you don't."

 

It could never really be silent there, what with the scarily wet gurgle of Alona's breathing being punctuated by the _tip tip_ of the blood dripping from one ragged shoulder-blade, but nonetheless a long quiet hovered behind his words.

 

"No I don't." she eventually agreed, swallowing tears.

 

They didn't play that game anymore after that.

 

 

 

The problem with (and obviously the reason for) being held underground, only receiving syrupy piss-flavoured water once you were desperate for it, was that you had no way to tell how long you'd been down there. Minutes felt like hours, and hours felt like days.  What felt like a week could actually be only three days but when you spent enough time unconscious you couldn't be sure it wasn't a whole fortnight. Your body clock got so fucked you could never sleep, but bone-deep exhaustion meant you spent every waking moment feeling like you should  be.

 

So Alona had no idea, _no fucking inkling_ of how long she'd been held there. She wondered if she had been declared MIA yet, if she was presumed dead. She wondered if it'd been long enough since her last dose for jumping out of there to graduate from _outside-the-conceivable-realm-of-possibility_ to merely _impossible_.

She'd dosed up two months and three days before they broke into her apartment in the night, dragging her kicking and screaming out the door and into a waiting van.

So it would be approximately one month and four days since capture until she could maybe (probably not) - _maybe_ \- make a jump.

 

But she wouldn't leave Michael.

 

So they would have to break out.

 

Obviously, she'd been wholeheartedly entertaining, even _pursuing_ , thoughts of escape since they had first strung her up, but as days and weeks(?) passed, freedom grew more and more unlikely.

 

For one, Michael had taken a boot to the knee cap that had left his entire right leg looking misshapen, though by this point there was so much blood and bruising coating both of them that Alona's good eye (which changed almost every time they payed her a visit, leaving her swollen and bleeding) couldn't make out what bruising was par the course and what had been caused by the injury itself. Either way, the point was that Michael would not be walking out on his own steam, let alone launching any kind of offensive.

 

And that led to the second problem. With Michael essentially out of commission, Alona was their only hope for survival.

 

Initially the hope had been for rescue or release, but lately the men had been stepping up their game. Every beating ended with Michael dangling unconscious, flogging Alona with chains instead of a whip (the rusted metal took chunks out of Alona's flayed back, which the men found hilarious) and the water deliveries stopped.

 

What was perhaps scariest of all was how the questions, _the interrogation_ dwindled to nothing. Alona couldn't shake the feeling that the men were just experimenting now, trying to get a last bit of value out of otherwise useless stock. They didn't even fuck her anymore, had stopped fucking Michael when he became periodically catatonic and unresponsive, as if they were bored of that now.

 

And so it got worse and worse. Michael spent all his time either catatonic or unconscious, and Alona couldn't even muster the energy to be greatful for that as their knives slashed and their hateful words, which once rolled off her back, became carved into her skin.

 

Eventually a day came where there was no fight left in her. She didn't have any pain left to give, having offered it all up with every lashing of the chain. She didn't have it in her to have any shame at the state of her body - naked, bleeding and bruised and _dripping_ with the filth carved into her- when she hardly felt human anymore. Even fear was somewhat elusive. The thought of dying didn't evoke much emotion beyond perhaps a vague irritation that she hadn't somehow _beaten_ this, that she hadn't concocted a brilliant escape plan and killed every last one of the bastards that kept her here.

Mostly though, dying just seemed like an awfully good option given it's inevitability.

 

So when one of their captors came, lifting her off the meat-hook -as they had done  periodically, in order to kick the shit out of her or so that she could get enough blood flow back into her hands to drink from an old water bottle- it was so simple, so _easy_ , to crash her forehead into his face, sending a river of blood rushing from his nose.

 

As he threw her to the floor, reeling with pain and turning his body to the side for a split second - _it was all she needed, all she needed_ \- she leapt onto his back, pulling one arm around his neck and cutting off his air supply. The brute struggled, trying to buck her off so violently that he reopened the wounds on her front, and as he crashed her back against a wall Alona had to fight hard to hold on to consciousness at the blinding agony lighting up her back.

 

Alona was so absorbed in not losing consciousness that she didn't see the knife coming until it was too late. The man was swiping blindly, but Alona could do little to deflect the blows as both her tied hands were still cutting off the flow of oxygen to his brain. Fortunately she did, when it looked like the short blade was going to slice into her eyeball, manage to move at the last moment, and the knife missed her eyes.

 

It did however bisect her eyebrow deeply, causing a cascade of blood to run into her eyes, effectively blinding her even as the man finally grew sluggish and slumped.

 

Alona almost sank to her knees in relief, but a small part of her mind that wanted so desperately to live whispered that if she did, she would not be getting up again. So instead she cautiously felt around for the knife, and the moment her hand closed around the hilt all the hope, all the terror, that she thought that she had run out of -it all slammed into her like a freight train. _She could get out of here_.

 

_Come on Mortimer it's all on the line now_.

 

She stumbled forwards, almost surprised by how easily each step came, finally stumbling into Michael's sticky form -sticky with what she did not know, blood or piss or shit- and groping around blindly until she managed to wrap her arms around him, tried to lift him off the big hook.

 

But his body simply crumpled inwards, and the little precious strength she had mustered to lift his hulking form drained away, wasted.

 

She felt her right leg buckle, crashing to the floor in a parody of a proposal's kneel.

 

She had nothing, _nothing_ left. If she had any tears then they would have been coursing down her cheeks as she swayed forward, her tacky forehead coming to rest against Michael's bare thighs, the course hairs matted down by dried bodily fluids coming loose again at the warm wetness of her brow.

 

" _Please_." she keened, "Please Mikhail-" _wake up, please wake up and take us away from here-_

 "- _please_."

 

But it was of no use, Michael had checked out of Hotel Hell a long time ago.

 

She didn't move from his feet, even as she heard boots approaching and the taunting rattle of a chain. She couldn't even find it in herself to feel any sort of surprise or trepidation when -out of nowhere- a boot cracked against her skull, sending her skidding across the floor.

 

She just lay there, utterly apathetic, as the newcomer swore at what she assumed was the body of his comrade, and then turned his attentions to her. If the whistle of the chains through the air was higher or shorter, or if the wet thudding of the chain ends as they struck her flesh grew more frequent, she couldn't say. She didn't particularly care.

 

There was so much pain -everything was agony, without respite or reprieve- that the new blows barely registered beyond the way each each impact rocked through her body.

 

And just as she thought her mind might cave in on itself under the sheer suction of the vacuum in her head, darkness came.

 

 

 

She came to so abruptly that it was at once refreshing and hellish- the full force of the pain in her body slamming into her brought her thoughts into a crystalline clarity, free from the fogginess of the apathy that had clouded it before.

 

"Alona!" Mikhaill was shouting hoarsely, closely, barely out of her reach.

 

"Mikhail?" she couldn't have hidden the hope and desperation warring in her voice had she tried.

 

"I'm here," he wheezed, a dragging sound coming closer, "Can you see me?"

 

"No, no, Nothing. There's blood in my eyes."

 

Her hands reached out blindly until they came into contact with his forearms, which were shaking under the strain of holding him up. She almost cried at the sensation of warm skin, of hairs tickling her palms and of muscles clenching as he adjusted his grip on-, on-

 

"I got his gun," he sounded like he couldn't believe it either, "I got his gun and I killed the fucker."

 

Alona sobbed at the sudden overwhelming surge of hope rising in her chest. They could get out of here. _They could get out of here_.

 

"I can't move my leg." he said, as if he could hear her thoughts.

 

"How did-"

 

"-Later." he cut in. Because there was going to be a later, even if it killed her, Alona would make sure that there was a _later_ for him.

 

"Do you think you can carry me?" he asked, though they both knew she didn't have much choice. He had eyes and a gun, she had legs. They needed all three.

 

So instead of replying, she somehow managed to stagger to her feet, swaying wildly as she was overcome by dizziness.

 

When the world steadied itself she held a hand out for Mikhail, using his desperate grasp and the support of his good leg to pull him up and onto her shoulders. It hadn't been obvious when they were both hanging, but he was _huge_. Considerably taller than Alona in a way that a girl of her height wasn't used to. She was almost disheartened as she wondered how the fuck she was supposed to carry this bear of a man out of there, until she realised that that was all that she could do. If this was the price she would have to pay for freedom, then goddamn it she would crawl if she had to, until she could crawl no more.

 

And so she took a step, ignoring the agony coursing through her, ignoring the squelch her back made against Mikhail's bare chest, ignoring the fact that she wasn't even certain she was heading for the door. It was maybe the hardest thing she'd ever done, her muscles screaming with the strain of it, exhaustion pulling insistently at her bones.

 

Or so she thought until she took a second step.

 

And just when she thought that there was nothing more impossible to complete than the step she had just taken, she put one foot in front of the other and took a third.

 

And she carried on like that, under Michael's careful directions of _eleven_ _o'clock, okay one o'clock, good now nine o'clock_ , she kept going.

It didn't get easier, if anything it got harder. Michael got heavier, the distance to freedom got longer, her steps shorter. But there came a kind of rhythm and balance to it, her mind clear save for this intense _striving_ to go a little further, be a little more free.

 

 

She felt Mikhail jerk long before she heard the gunshot echo past her. It was deafening, though not as deafening as the return shot Michael fired off right beside her head.

 

She felt no more shots come, so she assumed Michael's bullet must have hit home as she carried on moving forwards.

 

She couldn't hear any instructions, and while that didn't mean much, she could feel fresh, hot blood running down her legs anew.

 

When she finally staggered into a door, it took everything she had to take a step back so that she could close a fist around the handle - _please_ _god don't let it be locked,  please Jesus I promise to love you forever if_ \- and pulled the door open.

 

Had she the energy to weep, she would have done so at the breeze that caressed her face as she stepped through to freedom.

 

_No, no, no too early for that yet, have to get away, they can still catch you, get Michael to check if there are any following-_

 

But when she shouldered Mikhail in an attempt to get his attention, she was met with nought but a dead weight.  He didn't respond as she cried out his name, and he seemed much heavier than he had seconds ago.

 

Alona was struck by the sudden realisation that they were dying. They had too many wounds, had lost too much blood and were too dehydrated and malnourished for the future beyond a few hours - _if that_ \- to hold anything but death.

 

So, seeing nothing else to do, Alona put one foot in front of the other and took a step. And another, and another. She carried on like that until she felt warm Tarmac beneath her soles, and then from there she followed the road as best she could.

 

Eventually, of course, her legs gave out. As if her mind had been a piece of twine, unravelling out behind her as she wandered through the labyrinth, she felt numb and peaceful. Everything seemed so simple. She crawled, sluggishly dragging Mikhail along with her, because what else could she do?

 

Even that had to come to an end though, and somehow without her noticing, she came to a standstill and slipped away.

 

 

 

"Hello there little one." a hand caressed her cheek, the touch dragging icily across her soul.

 

"That's quite a lot of pain you have there, surely too much for you to even bear."

 

And it was, god it was too much for her. She couldn't even imagine a reality in which she wasn't in agony, in which pain didn't make up the very fabric of her universe -the very tissues of her body.

 

"Let me take it from you, little one, and you can repay me later yes?" _God that sounded so good_ , anything to make it stop-

 

"Tell you what," that over-soft voice cajoled, "I'll even help you find your way home."

 

 She didn't even waste a second considering the offer before she  used  her last drop of energy to nod yes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING  
> Graphic sexual violence and torture  
> Hostage Situation - assailant armed with sharp object
> 
>  
> 
> 'The Road' by Hurts (seriously this is one of the greatest albums ever recorded):  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KwLYJVWYA8
> 
>  
> 
> This is a behemoth of a chapter, and I feel like I've run a marathon writing it. I'm going to need to lie down for a while.
> 
> In my mind this is one of the lowest points in the story, for each of our three leads. They're each drowning in anger, guilt and fear, and I think the way each of them handles that is very telling about who they are as individuals, as well as players in a story.
> 
> As always, please leave comments/theories, and any kudos or critique is always welcome!
> 
> I promise the next chapter won't be so dark.
> 
> B  
> xx


	15. Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alona's voice was derisive as she looked on the two of them with repulsed sort of pity -Maria with her killer's eyes and Derek with his sudden heartbreak fracturing across his face.  
> "You think any of that means shit around here anymore?"

It was a beautiful day. The sunlight streaming through the leaves, the scent of warm earth rushing in through the open windows of the Camaro as Derek sped past the Beacon Hills sign -it all served to lift Derek' spirits even higher as he took the familiar turns through the forest-lined road towards his home town.

 

The looseness in his shoulders felt almost strange -the last time he'd returned to Beacon Hills it had been to the crushing feeling of _wrongness_   snapping at his heels, a familiar terror sitting bitter at the back of his throat.

But now he felt only a _rightness_  settling in his chest as he rode once more over the sweet-smelling soil of his territory.

 

That is until the wind changed and brought with it the odour of raw sewage.

 

Derek spluttered and breathed thorough his mouth as he hastily rolled up the windows, switching the air-con so that it circulated the mostly-clean air of the car's interior rather than bringing in the pungent air from outside. He might have felt annoyed, but found himself mostly tickled with fondness at Beacon Hills' refusal of the idyllic.

 

His phone rang, and he grappled to unplug the charger with one hand as he answered.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Where are you?" a voice whined from the other end, "You said you'd be here _before_  me and I've been waiting for _ages_."

 

Derek laughed before he could stop himself.

 

"Your parents didn't name you after the holy mother so that you would whine at your elders."

 

"Ay and they didn't name me after the holy mother so that I would smack a bitch either, but here we are."

 

Derek chortled at the light-hearted threat, slowing down as he entered the more populated outskirts of the town.

 

"I'm almost there, be patient."

 

Derek cut off her reply with a curse as the blue lights of a police cruiser flashed at him.

 

He tried not to sigh too heavily as he pulled over and a uniformed deputy approached his window. He reluctantly rolled down the window and breathed through his mouth when the deputy looked at him expectantly.

 

"Sir, you are aware that Beacon Hills has a number of elementary schools."

 

Derek grit his teeth and grunted his acknowledgement.

 

"And you are aware that in the state of California driving whilst operating a hand-held cell phone is illegal."

 

"Yes."

 

 Derek waited for the inevitable ticket to come through the window, but was surprised when the deputy snapped his notebook shut and leant down to the window.

 

"Well Mr Hale, I'm going to let you off with a warning this time." Derek sighed in relief, perhaps the day was not ruined after all.

"Next time I won't be so gracious, werewolf reflexes or no."

 

Derek's head jerked up, and the deputy -Parrish, his uniform said-  just smiled at him.

 

"My girlfriend is something of a supe herself."

 

Derek wondered just what he'd find inside Beacon Hills as the deputy glanced at his watch and said, "speaking of which, it's time for me to  get back to the station."

 

He nodded to Derek, "Drive safe, Mr Hale."

 

Derek rolled up his window absently, his mind still stuck on the fact that there were more supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills, and out to the local law enforcement no less.

 

He continued to mull it over as he continued on his way to the main street.

 

He had been aware, of course, that the town wouldn't simply freeze at his departure. People would continue with their lives, births and deaths and marriages -all of the usual stuff that happened in a community. But it hadn't until now sunken in that he had been gone a good while and that his space might have been filled.

 

Scott certainly had the right to claim a territory, and Derek was forced to face the very real possibility that he could have to fight him for it.

 

But he shook those thoughts from his mind, pulling up in a grocery store parking lot less than a block from the main street, his mouth dry from breathing through it for the last five miles.

 

He slipped inside, making a beeline for the refrigerator he could hear humming at the back of the store.

He'd just grabbed a cold litre of mineral water when he overheard his name being exclaimed in a hushed tone.

 

"-Hale?"

 

A second voice whispered enthusiastically in reply, "Yes! I daresay it is!"

 

"He's been gone a good while hasn't he? Why ever do you think he's back now?"

 

"I would bet my last cent it's for the dance teacher. Didn't they have a thing a little while back?"

 

Derek' heart skipped a beat. Kate was _dead_. There was no way-

 

"But isn't she beaus with that handsome deputy now?"

 

Oh no. Kate couldn't be-

 

Wait. There was no way the gossip mill -two old ladies who looked remarkably innocent as he approached the cashier- would have known Kate as his old lover. They had been a painfully well-kept secret as per Kate's insistence. It had burned (both literally and metaphorically) when he realised exactly why nobody was allowed to know about their relationship.

 

It couldn't be Kate.

 

At that conclusion Derek shook off what he'd heard and continued out into the warm day. They were probably just mistaken. Gossips weren't exactly known for their factual reliability.

 

He barely made it onto the main street before he had his arms full of fiery Latina.

 

"Ay Derek I ought to smack you so hard for making me wait!"

 

Derek smiled as pulled back from the embrace, patting Maria on the head as she pouted at him.

 

"How else am I supposed to teach you patience?"

 

She just scowled at him in reply, though he could see in her ebony eyes that she was just playing the part.

 

"Come on then, _dad_." she stole his water bottle and gulped some of the cool liquid down, the cheeky little shit.

"there's a farmer's market in the square and I really want some mango."

 

"You know they won't be as good as the ones you're used to..." He tried vainly to argue, but allowed himself to be pulled along anyways, thinking of the bare cupboards waiting for them in his loft.

 

He didn't regret the decision when they arrived at the market, the sunny square filled with bustling stalls selling everything their cupboards could possibly lack.

 

Maria made a beeline to a striped green stand with crates of shiny, swollen fruit. Derek followed at a more leisurely pace, mentally listing all the things that were a priority and resolving to collect the rest the next day, provided the market would still be there.

He only had so much cash on him, and he doubted the vendors took card.

 

He approached Maria, taking the mango she sniffed and then passed off to him. _He was definitely paying then_ , he thought wryly. Maria didn't look to be battling any sort of stench, so Derek chanced a breath through his nose. It seemed fine, they were probably upwind of whatever damaged pipe had caused the noxious scent from before.

 

When they had gathered five mangoes and half a dozen oranges -all to Maria's satisfaction- they paid and moved on to the next stand. They gradually ambled their way through the maze of stalls, picking up a few things here and there and tasting the samples some vendors set out to attract the potential customers. Maria was laughing and feeding him a pungent cheese on a cocktail stick when it happened.

 

Derek was laughing and chewing ruefully at the -really very stinky- cheese, when he caught sight a flash of blonde hair that made his heart stutter in his chest.

 

Staring dumbly at him from the other side of a crowd of push chair-wielding moms was Alona.

 

And it was definitely Alona. Her hair was longer now- almost to her shoulders- and the summer dress she wore did nothing to hide that she had lost _a lot_  of weight, but there was no mistaking the freckles on that pixie-ish face.

 

He moved numbly through the crowd,  bumping into a few people before he came close enough to speak.

 

Not that he did. Words failed him -and her too, apparently- as he took in the changes since he'd last seen her.

There was a scar above her right eyebrow, and another on her chin, that definitely hadn't been there before. The hint of a line played at the edges of her eyes, which were round and shocked and just as beautiful as the day she'd left.

 

"Baby, what are you- oh hi Derek!"

And if it wasn't fucking Parrish, smiling and shaking Derek's hand while his other looked right at home  on Alona's cardigan-clad shoulder.

 

"This is my girlfriend, Alona." He was still smiling, looking relaxed and happy as he indicated to Alona, who was looking less pleased by the second.

 

"Alona, this is- "

 

"Derek Hale. We've met."

 

And that stung. Derek would have said they'd done whole lot more than just _met_ -

 

"Derek why'd you look so spooked? The cheese wasn't that bad." Maria called as she came up behind him.

 

Derek didn't know how to possibly start to explain, so he just introduced her to the- the _couple_  in front of them.

 

"Maria, this is deputy Parrish, and this," He tried not to make his sigh -wistful and weary and a million things in between- too audible as he gestured to Alona.

"This is Alona."

 

Maria didn't say anything about it, but her eyes grew as round as saucers and she acted just a little too innocently to actually pull it off as she shook their hands and introduced herself. 

 

"It's so nice to have you back, Derek," Alona was saying in her over-sweet way, and Derek just wanted to roll his eyes because _not this shit again_.

 

"Good to see you've brought along your...friend." she continued, her eyes flicking between him and Maria.

 

Parrish was looking Alona like she'd grown an extra head, and Maria looked peeved. She never had been one for games, and she wasn't particularly equipped -hell _Derek_  was hardly _equipped_ \- to deal with whatever Alona bullshit was throwing. 

 

"If you're trying to say something then just say it." Maria ground or in a voice alarmingly close to a growl, "Don't play around."

 

Parrish chuckled uncomfortably as Alona's smile grew thin.

 

"Oh I don't want to assume!" she ran a hand through her hair, as if thinking hard on something, "Oh Derek what was that thing we used to say about assumptions?"

 

For all that Derek had missed her, he wasn't in the mood to be a pawn in her bitchy allusions to their past, not against Maria.

"It makes an ass of you and me?" He replied with a pointed look. Which wasn't at all what they'd said, back in the day, but he hoped Alona got the hint.

 

Alona was cut off in her reply by Parrish's strained laugh, "Hey baby isn't it time we got going? I know you're working tonight..."

 

That piqued Derek's interest. A job  _and_  a boyfriend sounded pretty settled, right? Maybe she was here to stay this time.

 

"What do you do?" He hoped she'd say something that would sound long term, like a school teacher or...

 

"I dance at a club in town."

 

He tried to bite back his disappointment, because that didn't sound very permanent at all, but he could smell the bitter scent of it as it rose on his skin. Apparently so could Maria.

 

"Ay really? And you don't feel like you're letting yourself and your parents down, _dancing_  for money?"

 

And well fuck. Derek instantly regretted not telling Maria -who was brutally protective at the best of times - more than just Alona's name and the fact she kinda broke his heart, watching as Alona's face went from genial to murderous in a heartbeat.

 

"First of all, _l_ _ittle girl_ ," she spat, towering over Maria's petite form, though Maria didn't give an inch, " My mother died of a drug overdose, and my brothers are in jail for my father's murder, so I'm doing oddly well _dancing_  for a living."

 

Derek sucked in a breath. He hadn't known her mother was dead too.

 

"And second of all?"

 

She stepped right up into Maria's space, despite the way Maria's eyes had softened, probably identifying with Alona's family history. The younger girl's posture had lost its defiance, but if Alona felt any sort of gratification she didn't let it show on her face and whispered down to Maria in a tone that made Derek's stomach clench.

 

"You would do well, little wolf, to learn how to pick your battles," she stepped away and Derek could see the anger rising afresh in Maria at the the insult, "or you won't last long in Beacon Hills."

 

And with that Alona turned and walked away, but stopped in her tracks when she heard the low growling emanating from Maria. The Latina flashed her blues eyes as if they were all the proof that was needed to show that she was not to be trifled with.

 

Derek was alarmed, looking around anxiously to see if any of the passers by had noticed the show-down, but they all ambled on, entirely oblivious.

He didn't miss Parrish's look though, confused and nervous, looking like he wanted nothing more than to grab Alona and run.

 

When his sights returned to Alona once more he was taken aback by how cold she looked. Hardened and aged, her gaze took in Maria's blue eyes; flat in a way that seemed to say that she had faced far worse things than an innocent-killer. She would not be cowed by a child in a monster suit.

 

Derek looked at her and suddenly the veneer of shock and former love that had formed over his eyes shattered. For all that her cheeks were flushed and her skin vibrant, she appeared old and jaded.

In a moment of horrifying clarity, it dawned on him that a great deal more had passed for her than him. It left him feeling adrift and sad, like he'd lost something precious and only just realised it, suddenly aware that he had no idea  where he'd lost that vibrant girl.

 

Her voice was derisive as she looked on the two of them with repulsed sort of pity -Maria with her killer's eyes and Derek with his sudden heartbreak fracturing across his face.

"You think any of that means shit around here anymore?"

 

She turned and walked away, Parrish trailing behind her.

 

 

 

 

Stiles dropped his lacrosse kit into the trunk of the Jeep with an exhausted sigh.

 

Danny had mysteriously tripped over nothing and fractured his leg, leaving an inexperienced sophomore to take goal for the second half and essentially costing them the game.

All the werewolves in the world didn't mean shit if your goalie froze every time he came near the damn ball. Finstock had shouted every threat under the sun at the weedy kid, and cursed Danny with every other breath for tripping over thin air.

 

"Thin air my ass" Stiles muttered under his breath, then trying to hide his startle at the chuckle from the passenger side.

 

He walked around the vehicle, thoroughly unsurprisingly to see Alona leaning against the passenger door.

 

She was dressed for work, a sliver of silver latex just catching the headlights of the cars leaving the parking lot where it peaked out between the tops of her sweatpants and the leather jacket.

 

"You saw that too then." she muttered, face impassive in a way that said more to him than it withheld.

 

" _I_  didn't see anything," He countered, opening the door for her, "I might have thought it was just a freak accident if it wasn't for the fact the Danny insists that there was a branch on the field."

 

The air was thick with all the things they didn't need to say, all the topics they were too weary to approach.

 

Alona sighed, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead, "Look, that isn't why I came over."

 

"Awh? You mean you didn't just come to check out my glutes as I shred the field?" 

 

Alona didn't laugh at his heavy-handed attempt at lightening the moment.

 

"Derek's back."

 

Stiles nearly choked on his spit. After the initial _oh-no-where-is-Derek_  had passed and they had all realised that he had abandoned them of his own free will -kidnappers don't throw away all the perishables- Stiles had honestly never expected to see or hear from Derek Hale ever again.

 

And as if they didn't have enough shit to deal with, now the asshole was back.

 

Nala must have seen all of this on his face, because she climbed into the passenger seat, explaining as she went, "Drive me to work and we'll talk on the way."

 

They had been driving for almost ten minutes of total silence when Alona muttered into the window pane. Stiles had to ask her to repeat herself twice before she snapped loudly in his direction, "I said he has a fucking girlfriend!"

 

Her outburst rang inside the small space, and it barely had chance to settle before she was taking up a rant.

 

"She's short and tanned and she's got dark eyes and dark hair-"

 

"-And is nothing like you." He intersected, but Nala barely paused in her tirade.

 

"Fuck you. She's Spanish and a werewolf and she has blue eyes. Blues eyes! What the fuck is he thinking?" she nearly shouted.

 

"You know, Derek had blue eyes once too." He pointed out with more than a little amusement.

 

"Yeah," she muttered, crossing her arms sullenly, "Look where that got me."

 

Sensing that she was done with her tirade, he posed the vital question: "Why do you think he's back? What's left for him here?"

 

"That fucker." she ground out at a more normal volume after a few moments with her thoughts.

 

"He thinks he can just swan in here, and reclaim his territory as if he didn't abandon it just when the shit had really started to hit the fan?"

 

She scoffed.

 

"Scott'll send him packing. I'll help him."

 

"You don't even like Scott!" Stiles objected.

 

Alona turned to him in shock, confusion spreading across her features.

 

"What? No of course I like Scott."

 

When Stiles raised his eyebrows she doubled her efforts.

 

"Scott is a much better choice for alpha."

 

"You called him an oblivious imbecile!"

 

"Well the evidence does suggest..."

 

Stiles shook his head in disbelief at the heel-face.

 

"So he is -and I quote- a 'hormone-blinded boy king' _and_  a better choice for alpha?" Stiles sucked in a breath through his teeth, "You have a very low opinion of Derek."

 

Alona scoffed, gathering her things as he pulled up beside an alley. She turned to Stiles, hand on door, and sighed.

 

"Deep down, I think Scott wants to be good. I think that desire is etched into his fucking soul." she looked Stiles in the eye as she continued, "He will be a great man one day, if he has the right guidance. He will be, because it is the one consistent desire he pursues."

 

Stiles almost asked her if she thought Derek was different, but thought better of it . Besides, all the evidence would suggest that even the guy himself didn't have a damn clue what Derek wanted.

 

Alona's voice cut through his thoughts.

 

"You coming tonight?"

 

"Uhhhh," He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, evaluating whether he had the energy for a night of dancing and of looking over his shoulder, "Maybe later. I gotta head home and shower."

 

"Yeah you reek."

 

He punched her on the shoulder and she punched back twice as hard.

 

"Give my love to Pops!" she called out as she exited the vehicle.

 

He watched her enter the building before executing a haphazard u-turn and heading home.

 

 

 

Derek was walking through what could only loosely be described as the nightlife district when he caught sight of Stiles.

Derek couldn't smell him -the air was addled with a nothingness that only grew thicker as he followed the boy towards a club on the corner of the street. 

The place must have been new, and the line of patrons extended past that of Jungle. The contrast between the crowds was telling. The jungle crowd were mostly half-dressed and almost entirely male, whereas the other place  - _Glamour? Jeez_ \- was a fairly mixed bunch, and the only thing tying the group together was a penchant for black clothing.

He saw Stiles forego the queue and walk right up to the bouncer, a large middle eastern man who nodded and let Stiles in without a word.

Derek looked down at his clothing, satisfied at the practicality of his habit of only buying dark colours, and approached the bouncer.

The man lifted an eyebrow at Derek's boldness but didn't move a muscle, even as Derek nodded toward the dark corridor visible over the bouncer's broad shoulder.

 

"Can I help you mate?"

 

The man had an accent that was difficult to place, though it did seem vaguely British.

 

"Yeah, I'm here with Stiles."

 

The man didn't even look sceptical, just ordered Derek to queue like everybody else.

 

"But Stiles didn't stand in line, he'll be waiting for me!"

 

"Bullshit. Go line up or go home."

 

And with that he turned around and started letting other patrons into the club.

After a few moments of angry reluctance, Derek went to stand at the back of the line.

 

It seemed like an age before he finally made it through the doors, but when he did he was astounded by what he had walked into.

The place was absolutely packed, gyrating bodies moving to a slow, groaning bass line whilst red lights washed over the writhing crowd.

 

He felt a little strange, if he was being entirely honest, the air swirling with nothingness punctuated by heady flashes of decadence -sweat, arousal, elation- it all sent his head spinning. The movement of the crowd did nothing to settle him, their bodies throbbing with unusual synchronisation as they followed the slow, rolling movements of the dancers performing on podiums on the corners of the dance floor.

 

It took him a moment to recognise Alona, with her arms in the air and her hips rolling in a way that was fodder for the imagination, but his heart dropped into his stomach once he processed what he was seeing.

 

She was wearing a silver bodysuit, and the shiny material showed her body in excruciating detail. She was so _skinny_ , her hip bones sharp points beneath the latex. Derek felt like he could see her every muscle as she moved, clearly powerful and controlled, but somehow falling short of the strength she was made to have.

 

It hurt his head thinking about everything he thought Alona was, or wasn't, and he felt suddenly aware that he had no right to ponder who or what she was meant to be.

 

He was startled out of his thoughts by hands on his hips, tugging him around to face a beautiful dark-haired girl, who smirked at him and then started dancing provocatively against his body.

 

He didn't know if it was the shock of seeing Alona looking so different, the intoxicating atmosphere amongst the crowd or even just the fact that it'd been so damn _l_ _ong_  that made him put his hands on the girl's hips and take control of the dance -but he did just that- pushing into her with every hypnotic swell of the seductive bass.

 

Their bodies moved together flawlessly, the music swimming around and through them in pulses, rocking and grinding against each other until Derek could barely think straight.

 

The girl smelt of arousal and sex and sweat, flooding into Derek's blood in a way that felt unbelievably good, the familiarity of the uncomplicated lust settling pleasantly inside him.

 

When she kissed him it felt like release, like finally letting go of something - _someone_ \- that had weighed on him for too long. Derek felt drunk on the dizzying relief that this -plain primal lust- was still a thing he could do, could lose himself in.

 

They broke apart as the music climbed in tempo and pitch, and Derek threw his head back, relishing the heady rush of endorphins.

He realised suddenly how tired he was, though it didn't bother him. It felt more like the beginnings of post-sex exhaustion, and he thought he would maybe like to see how far he could take that feeling.

 

He looked down at the girl's upturned face, grinning like a loon and an invitation on the tip of his tongue when a hand clamped on his shoulder and jerked him back.

 

He was about to protest -he had to talk to the girl- when he saw that it was Stiles who had pulled him away.

 

"Stiles!" He exclaimed, throwing an arm around the boy, who returned the embrace half-heartedly.

 

When he pulled back Stiles didn't return his smile. If anything, he looked pissed off.

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

Well ex- _cuse_  him. Derek was a grown ass man, and Stiles didn't need to sound so annoyed.

 

"Shut up," He retorted, "You're sixteen, you shouldn't even be in a club."

 

"I'm eighteen _asshole_."

 

Oh yeah, because Derek had been gone for a loooong time. Derek had been gone and Alona had come back. He needed to go find Alona-

 

"Oh no, you need to go _home_." Stiles said, pulling Derek through the throng of bodies towards the door.

 

It was slow progress, the door was _so_  far away, and Derek's legs didn't want to take him there. They showed it by wobbling and stumbling all over the place as Stiles tried to manoeuvre them through the churning mass.

 

"Oh fuck's sake-" Stiles yanked Derek's arm over his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist, shouldering Derek's weight as they stumbled towards the exit.

 

The girl from before was standing by the door, and Derek waved to her even as Stiles swore and changed their direction.

 

He led them out of a side door, through a dark corridor before emerging in an abandoned alleyway.

 

Stiles swore again when three men emerged from the shadows, and Derek leaned close to reassure him, "Don't worry, I got this."

 

But his claws wouldn't come, and he stared at his hands in confusion as Stiles swore some more, shoving him towards a wall and looking around desperately. Derek helpfully handed Stiles an empty beer bottle, which Stiles smashed against a wall, just in time for one of the men to step forward and swing at the lanky kid.

 

Stiles rocked with the punch, but recovered quickly enough to slash at the man with the sharp end of the bottle. He drew blood, but it wasn't enough when another man came at him from behind and punched him in the ribs.

 

Stiles was stunned by the blow, body arching, and all it took was one good upppercut to knock him to the ground.

 

Derek tried to step into the fray as all three men began kicking at Stiles' prone form, but he toppled over as soon as he let go of the wall.

 

Somewhere a door burst open, a gleam of silver flashing through the darkness and colliding with two of the assailants.

 

It was kinda hard to see what was happening -his vision kept swimming and everything kept moving so damn _quickly_.

 

All he could really see were flashes of silver and maybe at one point Stiles landing a punch that threw the guy's head back, but he was pretty sure his team was winning all the same.

 

Suddenly it all came to a stop and the scene gradually swam into focus: Alona and Stiles breathing heavily, not looking remotely triumphant at their victory -Alona spitting the blood from her mouth whilst Stiles winced heavily as he straightened, one hand tentatively prodding at his ribs- both looking tired and pissed off.

 

Derek blinked up at them from the floor, watching wearily as Alona marched up to him.

 

"Fucking hell, Derek." She barked as she pulled him up and settled his back against the wall. Derek felt bad when he saw the bruise already forming around her eye, but his apology came out unintelligibly slurred.

 

Alona sighed and looked him in the eye, a sad face on her look, a sad look on her face? No angry. An angry look on her face.

 

Derek felt his eardrums go as she clapped her hands over his ears, sharp agony lancing through his head, left to look on in confused and betrayed deafness as Alona said something to Stiles involving a lot of frowning and hand gestures.

 

Stiles, oddly, just nodded in reply before pulling Derek to his feet and leading him away.

 

Derek was a little steadier now, thank God, and so was able to stumble after Stiles as he walked towards where the Jeep was parked a road over.

 

Derek found his steps growing surer  the closer they drew to the vehicle, and by the time he had managed to buckle himself in he could feel the pressure building in his ears as his eardrums healed.

 

They finally popped painfully just as Stiles pulled up outside the loft, and Derek's head drained of all fogginess between one moment and the next.

 

"Fuck." He drew out on a sigh, Stiles only nodding in agreement before gingerly climbing out of the vehicle.

 

"You alright for the stairs big guy?" Stiles added as an afterthought, though he looked immensely relieved at Derek's nod.

 

They had barely set foot into the loft before Maria was upon them, shouting at Derek for not answering his phone.

 

"-fifteen times, Derek! What if something had happened to you?"

 

Derek and Stiles mostly ignored her as they made their way to the settee, settling in with a groan. Now that his head was clear, it sure did hurt.

 

Stiles' voice broke into his self pity.

 

"We should talk."

 

That they probably should.

 

"Not now though. We should wait for Alona."

 

Derek agreed grimly, not looking forward to the impending conversation.

 

"When is she coming?"

 

Stiles sighed, settling into the couch.

He closed his eyes while he spoke.

 

"The club closes in ten minutes, so they'll be along as soon as they get rid of all the punters." Stiles yawned, "They're pretty good at that though, so maybe half an hour, hour tops."

 

"They?"

 

"Alona will bring Michael."

 

"Parrish?"

 

Stiles opened one eye and scowled, "No, that's _Jordan_. Michael was with Alona when she came."

 

"Wait, that bitch is coming _here?_ " Maria objected, poking her head around the kitchen door.

 

Stiles sat up sharply at that.

 

"Speaking of bitches, Derek, I don't believe you've introduced me to yours."

 

Maria growled threateningly from the kitchen doorway, flashing her blue eyes at Stiles, who laughed mirthlessly.

 

"Oh please, if you idiots think that counts for anything these days then it's no wonder Derek almost got himself killed tonight sucking that thing's face."

 

Derek rankled at the suggestion of weakness, but Stiles carried on.

 

"Beacon Hills has left the minor leagues, and you're out of shape Hale."

 

Stiles closed his eyes and rested back once more.

 

"You're a rookie in this game, and you're only good as a benchwarmer unless you wise up."

 

Derek couldn't think of a single counter-argument as Stiles threw an arm over his eyes and muttered, more wearily than anything else, "So you better wise up fast."

 

They sat in uncomfortable silence after that, waiting for Alona and the conversation nobody wanted to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blind by Hurts:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIgaWx48U8A
> 
> wooooo this chapter was a BITCH to write. I ended up rewriting about three times because the characterisation kept feeling off. I'm still not entirely happy with it tbh.
> 
> But yeah, Derek's back in BH, as is Alona. The next chapter is underway and will hopefully make some things a little clearer -but not too much bwahahaha!
> 
> As always; comments, critiques and kudos are welcome!
> 
> B


	16. Bad Moon Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's the last time we do that, okay?"
> 
> Alona touched her shoulder, explaining, not unkindly, "We can't afford to be fighting each other."

By the time Alona entered the loft she'd already decided what would be discussed. There were things Derek needed to be aware of if he was going to stay in this town, lest they wanted a repeat of the night's earlier activities.  
  
She had, of course, completely forgotten about his new bitch until Michael had stopped her with a gentle hand on hers, halfway up the staircase, and pointed at his chest with three fingers.  
  
She nodded in acknowledgement, pulling a face of disgust to show that she knew precisely who the third heartbeat belonged to and exactly how she felt about them. Michael just nodded.  
  
They made the rest of the way up without further incident, and upon entering the loft twenty-five minutes after Stiles and Derek had left the club -a new record- she could immediately sense that something had transpired before her arrival.  
Derek was boring a hole into the floor with his gaze, Maria was stewing in the kitchen doorway and Stiles was leaning back with his eyes closed -far from asleep but pretending hard enough to pass for dead.  
  
She took the opportunity to toss his wallet at his unsuspecting form, and Stiles yelped when the leather smacked his face, spluttering protests as she took a seat at the table.  
  
"It's late, so I'm just going to jump in and get started."  
  
She could see Derek opening his mouth to speak but she pre-empted him, raising a hand before he could speak.  
  
"Save questions for the end, or we'll never make it through this."  
  
Derek exhaled and nodded, seemingly willing to set whatever he had wanted to ask aside for the time being. Apparently Maria wasn't feeling much the same.  
  
"Who's this guy? Why is he even here right now?" she demanded.  
  
Alona looked to Michael, in part to see if the rudeness had rankled him -if it had then he wasn't showing it- but mostly to share a look of disdain.  
  
"One could ask the same of you, little wolf, so I suggest you mind your manners." Alona replied clearly and coldly.  
  
Alona watched in the window reflection as Maria stomped towards her.  
  
"I'm sick of this condescending bullshit!" she roared, and Alona spared a look at Derek's panicked face and Stiles' smug one before sweeping out of her seat to face the growling she-wolf.  
  
"Prove me wrong then," Alona challenged, shifting onto the balls of her feet, "show me why I should take you ser-"  
  
The attack was so expected and typically werewolf that it was laughable; wide-armed charge, claws out for a long swipe and overly confident in their superior strength and speed. It was simple and easy to beat this approach, as she had been explaining to Lydia just the day before.  
  
First, strike the swiping wrist upwards ( _don't worry, you'll definitely see it coming, the arc is so wide_ ) throwing their centre of gravity back. Quickly, kick the knee outwards to send them crashing to the floor. Get low and close, pinning their arms with your knees-  
  
The kneecaps in her back were unexpected, but she only had herself to blame –she’d been too cocky.  
 The impact sent her rocking forward, giving the she-wolf the leverage she needed to free her arms and flip Alona back and off, the collision with the floor winding her.  
  
Alona wasn't up quickly enough, and Maria rose over her, feet planted either side of Alona's hips, to look down on her smugly.  
Someone was counting chickens it seemed, and Alona used the girl's split second distraction to jab the back of one of Maria's knees, sending the she-wolf careening to the side, helped along by a swift upward shove to the opposite thigh. She went down like a ton of bricks, and Alona didn't waste time, darting forward to aim for the throat, digging her fingers in around the trachea and yanking with all her might, until the crunching sound of breaking cartilage echoed through the air.  
  
Maria writhed on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to breathe through a collapsed airway. Grabbing her thick brown hair, Alona yanked Maria's head back, hissing in her ear, "Submit."  
  
The girl wavered too long and, ignoring the voice piping up behind her, Alona slammed the girl's furry face into the floor.  
  
"Submit!"  
  
This time the girl complied, baring her neck as far as she could.  
  
Satisfied, Alona let her go and rose, offering a hand to the younger girl.  
  
After a moment of hesitation, the assistance was accepted and both girls stood facing each other.  
  
Maria's eyes didn't meet Alona's as her head was gently tilted back, and Alona waited for the audible pop of the younger girl's healed cartilage before addressing her.  
  
"That's the last time we do that, okay?"  
  
Alona touched her shoulder, explaining, not unkindly, "We can't afford to be fighting each other."  
  
At Maria's nod, Alona turned back to the rest of the group.  
  
The dawn was starting to lighten the horizon, and Alona felt suddenly exhausted, sinking into her previous seat with a barely-concealed groan.  
  
."Anyway, we seem to have a bit of a pest problem," she started.

 "We don't know what they are or where they come from, but there's a lot of them, and as far as we can tell, they're invisible."  
  
She let out a sigh at Derek's dumbfounded expression.  
  
"Those men that attacked us in the alleyway were not an isolated occurrence. Members of the pack are being attacked regularly by gangs of men."  
  
She could see the moment Derek's brain fixed on the thought; hunters.  
But that's the thing, they definitely _weren't_ hunters. She wasn't sure where to even begin explaining this when Stiles stepped in and helped her out.  
  
"Derek, where were the bodies?" He asked quietly, "After we fought the men in the alley, where did their bodies go?"  
  
Derek seemed to think hard, but he didn't sound like he even believed himself when he answered, "They vanished?"  
  
Stiles nodded, "It's the same thing very time."  
  
"They attack us," Alona took up where Stiles left off,” and they either beat us bloody or we fight them off, but either way there's never a trace of them afterwards."  
  
"Nothing at all?" Maria asked with quiet disbelief, "not even a scent?"  
  
"They don't have a scent."

Everyone startled when Michael spoke, his deep voice taking them by surprise, silent as he had been.  
  
Maria looked confused by his statement, whereas Derek's face held a dawning horror.  
  
Alona pressed on.  
  
"They're not trying to kill us outright."  
She shook her head ruefully, "A head-on assault we could probably deal with, but perhaps they know that. Instead we're being attacked on a near fortnightly basis, and they're targeting things and people that are significant to the pack."  
  
"Sabotaging our lacrosse games, endangering our loved ones and allies –Deaton’s has been vandalised four times in the last month! Not to mention, the keys to my jeep go missing at least once a week!"  
  
"No offence, but this hardly sounds as dangerous as you made it out to be." Derek retorted, side-eyeing Stiles.  
  
Michael shut him down quickly, "There's more."  
  
Alona nodded to him in thanks. Part of her wished that she could have had him by her side for her entire military career, his stoic support calmed and rooted her in the moment.  
  
"We've had four instances of people's eyes being plucked out, two of whom were a mother and her six-year-old daughter in broad daylight, walking along main Street."  
  
She rubbed the back of her hand across her brow, weary at the summation of their problems.  
  
"And people are dying. And we don't know how." It pained her to admit that she was at a total loss as to what was causing the massive increase in deaths. "They aren't dying unusually, it's all very run-of-the-mill, but the mortality rate in Beacons Hills has risen by 26% in the last year."  
  
"That's an increase of about one person every three days, dying within Beacon Hills." Stiles explained.  
  
"The hospital is severely understaffed, and so is the Sheriff's department." Alona rose from her seat, gathering her things as she continued, "They can't deal with the sudden uptick in violent behaviour."  
  
"But what has this got to do with us?"  
  
Alona tried not to hate Maria for the genuine question, but Derek shared her irritation when he answered, "Because this is _our_ town."  
  
And when she looked at Derek -really looked at him- she could see the quiet determination and concern in his eyes. Gone was that turbulence she'd come to associate with him, and in its place was a still depth that seemed to hold much more than she could possibly fathom.  
  
It was too much to bear.  
  
"I have to go." she gathered her things.  
  
"I have work in-" she looked at her watch and despaired, "five hours.”  
  
Michael made his noise of assent and nodded to Stiles, who rose from the couch to join them.  
  
"Surely the club isn't open on a Saturday morning?" Derek asked, incredulous.  
  
"It isn't," she explained, "I teach self-defence and dance over at the leisure centre."  
  
She couldn't decipher the look on Derek's face, nor the reason it made her heart twist so. She realised she had to get out of there before she did something stupid.  
  
"Good night."  
  
And with that they left, silent all the way to Stiles' jeep.  
  
Stiles waited until they were on the road before he spoke.  
  
"So...Derek, huh?"  
  
And Alona couldn't do this right now. Her knuckles were killing her, her feet were sore and she was exhausted.  
Somehow Michael saw this from his where he sat on the back seat, and he interrupted the expectant silence.  
  
"Stiles."  
  
The boy exhaled, "Okay."

  
Stiles seemed to think for a bit, then nodded, "Okay."

 

 

 

When they finally arrived at Michael and Alona’s shared apartment, Stiles felt immeasurably relieved to be invited in. Michael’s hands were huge but gentle, and when Stiles sat shirtless on the edge of the bathtub, Alona beside him with a pack of frozen peas pressed to her side, Michael was quick but thorough as he cleaned their cuts and scrapes.

Alona got up and left the bathroom once Michael started bandaging Stiles’ bruised ribs. With just the sound of their breaths echoing in the tiny bathroom, Stiles couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or something else pulling so that he swayed more heavily into Michael’s careful touch.

By the time they emerged it was fully light outside, and Stiles had to draw the blinds –wincing at the tenderness in his side- before climbing into the bed Alona had made for him on the couch.

He lay there, curled up in a foetal position (because if he straightened his legs then it would only be two hours before Alona walked into them on her inevitable trip to the toilet) and tried very hard to shut his brain up. Who cared that Derek was back?

It probably wouldn’t change a damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad Moon Rising by Mourning Ritual:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2S4GTD-AAw
> 
> I am so sorry, my laptop broke so this baby has been sitting around for ages. It's just a wee one, but more will be coming very soon!
> 
> B  
> x


	17. Out of Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay see this?” Stiles flipped the see-through board to show the other side. An enlarged map of Beacon County took up the entire space. It was covered in a multitude of brightly colour dots, and Derek noticed the coloured markers tacked to the frame of the board. Stiles pointed at one of the largest clusters of dots, predominantly blue in colour, “This is where the dude collapsed. Over here,” he pointed to a small cluster of blue dots well outside the town’s borders, “is where he had been camped the night before.”

It only took three days of warring with himself before Derek found himself standing in the Stilinski garden, looking up at Stiles’ open window with a strange sort of nostalgia. It may have seemed odd for him to look back on those dark years after Laura’s death with any sort of longing, but the fact remained that Derek had never felt so present, so _vital_ as he had in that time. His return to Beacon Hills, so far, had mostly left him feeling superfluous and unwelcome. Though, as shrewd part of him pointed out, a man who ran wasn’t entitled to feelings of significance. Not that he felt bad for leaving. He’d undergone some vital maintenance in the jungles of the Amazon. Now it was time to prove that those painful changes hadn’t been made in vain.

He could hear that the other werewolf, _Michael_ , was in the room as well, but the two didn’t speak so much as Stiles maintained a steady stream of semi-vocal muttering, which stopped abruptly the moment Derek stepped through the window and onto the paper-strewn carpet.

“Dude! You couldn’t warn me?” Stiles shrieked at Michael, who didn’t so much as twitch from where he was stood facing a large perspex-board. Derek’s view was mostly obstructed by the other man’s broad back, so he moved closer until the full arrangement became visible.

In the centre was a detailed map of Beacon Hills, covered in annotations and markings. Derek followed one bright red thread –pinned at one end to the conjunction of two teleric currents- to a cell photo of a hospital report. The report had several parts highlighted and sticky notes added more information. One caught Derek’s eye:

_According to CDC, 0 cases of Yellow Fever within a 200 mile radius srb._

“SRB?” Derek couldn’t help asking.

Stiles peered over to see what Derek was referring to.

“Oh, since records began.” He explained.

“This guy showed up at hospital, vomiting blood, and the doctor’s closest guess to the issue was that he had Yellow Fever. I don’t think it was though.”

Derek had to raise his eyebrows at Stiles’ refusal to accept an expert opinion. Stiles seemed to notice this and took it upon himself to explain.

“Okay see this?” he flipped the see-through board to show the other side. An enlarged map of Beacon County took up the entire space. It was covered in a multitude of brightly colour dots, and Derek noticed the coloured markers tacked to the frame of the board. Stiles pointed at one of the largest clusters of dots, predominantly blue in colour, “This is where the dude collapsed. Over here,” he pointed to a small cluster of blue dots well outside the town’s borders, “is where he had been camped the night before.”

Stiles looked at him expectantly, but Derek couldn’t see what the boy was getting at. Fortunately, Michael helped him out.

“Try to look at the bigger picture.”

As soon as he mentally stepped back it jumped out at him. Aside from a few anomalies, all the clusters of dots happened on an invisible path running straight through the centre of the town and out into the preserve. The vast majority of the dots were blue, but a fairly large number were red, with only a few in green only less than five were black.

“What do the different colours stand for?” Because Stiles would have system. The boy was erratic, not random.

Though when Derek looked over at Stiles for an answer he realised that he may need to revalue even that assessment. Stiles was standing –arms crossed, not flailing or fidgeting- frowning at the map before him as if it would present an answer it had been withholding if he only gave it a few more moments of his attention. The crease between his brows lessened as he seemed to drag himself out of his thoughts, gesturing with a sticky pad as he explained, “Red is for places where the pack have been targeted.”

Derek’s stomach dropped a little at that. There were _so many red dots._

“Blue is for suspicious events involving people not affiliated with the pack.”

That was fair enough. There was a veritable river of blue dots leading across the map, but if they were marking every suspect occurrence outside the pack then it would make sense that there would be many more of those.

“Green is for incidents involving a confirmed supe.”

There was that word again. _Supe._ It rankled as it served to remind him that Parrish was apparently more in the loop than he was.

“Are you counting Alona as a supernatural creature?” he felt the need to ask, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate to talk about her. If he did, Stiles didn’t mention it, though Derek could feel Michael’s eyes shift onto him.

“No. We discussed it, but since we don’t know for sure we are counting her as human for the time being. Besides, she’s pack, so she’s red.”

Derek didn’t even try to hide the perverse pleasure he felt knowing that Parrish had Alona’s classification wrong. Probably hadn’t even thought to ask.

“Except of course when she’s black.” Stiles amended.

“Black is for significant events that we know must tie into the plotline.”

“ _Plotline?_ ” Surely the kid didn’t think this was all just a story book?

“Sure, it’s like a crime thriller. The author leaves lots of clues and hints in the events that happen, and you have to try to figure them out before you reach the last chapter.”

Derek couldn’t believe the blasé way in which Stiles spoke, and his nose told him he was right. The entire room stank of bone-deep guilt, covered by layers of stress. The most bearable part of the entire room was the spot right in front of the board, where, Derek suspected, the thrill of solving the puzzle pushed all other things aside.

“What are they then?” Derek asked, mostly to put a stop to where his thoughts would lead him. He’d had enough unnecessary guilt for matters out of his hands to last him a lifetime.

“Well,” Stiles sighed, “This one here-“ he pointed to a dot far outside the town’s limits, “-this is where Michael and Alona popped up.”

“How does that qualify as a ‘significant’ event? And are you telling me she jumped _with another person?_ ”

“I think it’s like that time that she took your shirt with her. Maybe if she wants it badly enough, it just comes with her.” he shrugged at Derek. Apparently they still only had theories on that one.

“Anyway, it’s significant because this shit –the eyes getting plucked out and that nothing-smell you guys keep complaining about- this stuff only happens when she’s in this time.”

“How do you figure?” It seemed quite a refined theory compared to the general guessing in all other aspects.

“Well. The earliest event is here,“ he pointed at a black dot in the centre of town, “where a guy lost his eyes and crashed into me. That was the night after Alona first showed up, right?” he waited for Derek to nod before he continued.

“So then we’ve got the Dullahan and that freaky nothing smell, but the second you send her back –which was way uncool, by the way- it all stops and the nothing-smell disappears. And it doesn’t reappear until she comes back, this time with this old lug.” Stiles smiled fondly at Michael, who merely held Stiles in his steady gaze, though Derek could smell the fondness and the attraction rising off the other werewolf.

“Aaaaand then all this shit kicks off.” And there –finally- was that familiar arm-flail Derek had been looking for.

“So why did they come back?” Derek asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Uhhh…” Stiles scratched his nape as he shot a questioning look at Michael, which piqued Derek’s interest. Michael’s look was indiscernible to Derek, but apparently Stiles read something in it because he flung down the sticky notes and grabbed his keys.

“We probably shouldn’t have that conversation without Alona,” he gestured to the door, “we’ll grab her and let her explain.”

Derek just hoped she was feeling friendly.

 

 

Stiles pulled up outside the renovation project with dread sitting low and heavy in his gut. It lessened briefly as the three of them stepped out of the jeep and into the warm sunshine, but grew more with every step they took towards what had been the old community centre.

The building itself had been decommissioned and torn down by the county almost three years prior, but a committee had sprung up to campaign for the space to be reused as a memorial garden. Two years later and work was almost complete. All that was left to do was the actual gardening and landscaping; there was a crew standing in the pit of what would eventually become a pond, yet another laying a footpath that ran past all the plots –both those that had already started to be dedicated and those that were as yet unclaimed.

There wasn’t at that moment anyone working on the plot dedicated to the fallen members of BHSD, but Stiles had seen Tara’s nephew on the drive over, looking tired and sweaty and covered in dirt. It was coming along nicely; a large rowan sapling that hadn’t been there the last time he visited took the centre place and a fresh layer of compost had been added to surrounding soil, ready for the smaller shrubbery.

Derek’s sharp intake of breath caught Stiles’ attention, and his gaze was drawn across to Alona, who –sweaty and sunburnt- was standing and laughing with a group of other women as they took what appeared to be a water break.

Derek’s face was unreadable, and Stiles tried to imagine what it was that Derek saw when he looked at the scene before them.

Stiles had only spent a few hours with the girl at most before she went back, whereas Derek had spent _weeks_ living in close quarters with her. In fact, Stiles almost completely discounted the girl from before and had gotten to know the woman who came back far more intimately than her younger counterpart. Derek didn’t have that though. So Stiles took a moment to try and see what Derek saw.

Stiles imagined the first thing Derek would notice was how much skinnier Alona was. Would he think it was cosmetic, or would he somehow know about the appetite loss and the sleepless nights? Alona wouldn’t tell anyone any different, and Stiles himself only knew because Alona and Michael had both woken him up on multiple occasions during the short time, post-hospital release, that the pair had stayed in Casa Stilinski.

What about the things that weren’t so easily seen by the naked eye? The sharpness of her gaze as she caught sight of them, the resignation, the fear. It wasn’t obvious- her stride was confident and assured as she approached them, but her stance was too open when she stopped by them, and her grip too steady as she took another long gulp from the water bottle in her hands. Part of him envied her ability to put up such a sure front, but mostly Stiles just feared that whatever enemy was lurking in Beacon Hills could see through the façade as easily he could.

“ ‘Sup Losers.”

“Sup,” Stiles nodded, “We thought we’d invite you on a romantic lunch date.”

“Dawwwhhh! Of course.” she threw an arm around Michael, who made a show of holding his breath and trying to squirm away.

“Are you try to saying something?” she asked with mock indignation, but Michael just snorted.

“I’d settle for breathing.”

While Alona shoved Michael, Stiles shot a look at Derek. The poor idiot looked almost relieved as he watched the two tussle.

“You can’t win this fight, Mortimer!” Stiles heckled from the side-lines.

“Fucking watch me!” she shouted as she ran at Michael and leapt onto his back.

Michael twisted and bucked, trying to throw her off but mostly just making Alona whoop and laugh as she clung on for dear life. Eventually he stopped, hoicking a giggling Nala higher on to his back and setting off towards the way they came. Stiles had to chuckle when Nala made a sound like a whip cracking and Michael feinted a drop, making her shriek and clutch him tighter.

 

Their spirits hadn’t dimmed any by the time they reached the small cafe near the town centre.

“Whose turn is it?” Alona asked as she reached for the menu. Stiles watched Michael roll his eyes before whacking her lightly on the head with his own Menu.

“Piss off, I paid last time!” she muttered in good nature as she became engrossed in the other side of the laminated sheet.

Stiles was started by the sound of a chair scraping, and looked up to see a disgruntled Derek pulling over a chair from a nearby table. Neither Michael nor Alona had the decency to look chagrined as Derek planted the chair at the table of three. It was a bit of a squeeze, but with a little shuffling (almost solely on Stiles’ part) he was able to fit.

“It’s on me.” He said, finally reaching for a menu.

Alona tore her eyes from her menu to look at him for a moment, but turned back to her perusal without a word.

The ensuing silence was stifling. Naturally, Stiles sought to fix that.

“So Derek, what have you been doing since we last saw you?”

“Well,” Derek said, in that same overly small-talky tone, “I visited some friends in New York, then came back to San Francisco, then travelled down to our sister pack in Brazil. Settled down there until it was time to come back.”

“Time to come back?” _had he felt some sort of alpha-spidey-sense calling him back?_

“Yeah.” Derek put down his menu and settled back in his chair. “Their wise woman had told me the day that I arrived that I should never have left Beacon Hills, and then one day she tells me that it’s nice having me around, and I knew it was time to come back.”

“Oh.” _Totally alpha-juju._

“So Michael, where are you from?” If Derek had been aiming for a smooth transition, he had missed it by a mile. Fortunately he was saved by a bored looking waiter coming over and taking their orders. Nala was typically long-winded, Michael was typically succinct. Derek, naturally, ordered the meatiest item on the entire menu.

Silence descended again, until Stiles cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Michael, who held his gaze for a moment before answering Derek’s earlier question.

“Born in Liverpool, but moved to Hammersmith in London when I was six. Joined the Army at sixteen, went on my first tour at eighteen.”

“Where to?” Stiles couldn’t help asking. He hadn’t realised that Michael had started his life as a soldier so young.

The older man’s dark eyes met his with something akin to surprise.

“I, uh, Afghanistan. Three tours.”

“Where you a spy then too?”

“Stiles,” Michael groaned fondly, “I was never a spy.”

“Then what were you doing in Russia?” Stiles exclaimed.

“I was undercover.”

“-as a spy!”

“Fuck!” Alona cut in, “You two are doing my nut in!”

She turned on Stiles first.

“He was undercover as a terrorist liaison, allegedly to coordinate the exchange of opium for weapons.”

“Because you’re a muslim?” Derek asked.

“Because I’m brown.” Michael deadpanned.

“Right, sorry.”

“And you!” Alona whipped around, pointing a finger at Michael, “You should know better than to argue with an idiot.”

Stiles couldn’t even bring himself to be offended at the insult. He was just glad that they had somehow found a way to have this conversation without vague explanations and passive-aggressive jibes. He hoped he could steer it in the right direction without breaking the spell.

“Yeah,” he chimed in, “You should listen to her. She’s a spy, she knows things.”

Alona flicked him on the ear but didn’t argue.

“Wait, you were a _spy?_ ” Derek asked, incredulous.

“Eh…Intelligence Corps.” Alona answered him, surprising everyone with how freely she gave the information.

“I left here, started my Officer training and joined Army Intelligence.”

“What did you _do?”_ Derek looked both awed and horrified, and Stiles shared a subtle look of amusement with Michael.

 

“I did a few tours of Afghanistan attached to an infantry unit, one year at a base in Japan, a brief stint undercover in South Africa, six months deskwork in Prague and then about a year and half undercover in Russia.”

 

Derek looked entirely horrified now, and when he finally found his voice his question sounded like he didn’t actually want to hear the answer.

 

“How long has it been, for you?”

 

Alona looked him up and down, her gaze almost as flat as her tone when she finally answered.

 

“Six years my timeline, plus one here.”

 

“Seven years?”

 

“Yes Derek, that is what six plus one comes to.”

 

Derek’s eyes flicked between the three of them, as if he was hoping somebody would chuckle and give the game away, but nobody laughed.

 

“That means you’re twenty-seven?”

“Well technically my driver’s licence says I’m twenty-five.”

 

“But you _are_ twenty-seven.”

 

“If you want to be picky about it, yes.”

 

Derek suddenly lost his confusion, looking abruptly angry instead.

 

“I do want to be picky about it!” he raged.

 

“I want to know why you waited so long before you decided to come back. Why did you even decide to come back when you-, you-“ and suddenly Stiles realised what was going on here. Derek still loved her, Derek was _totally_ still in love with a nineteen-year-old Alona. But now twenty-seven-year-old Alona was sitting in front of him and he thought she’d outgrown him.

 

“I did not choose to come back!” she hissed, her tone suddenly venomous.

“I only came back because we were _dying._ Given half the choice I would have never set foot back in this god forsaken town!”

She looked about ready to jump across the table and gut him, but when Michael’s hand came down and rested over her clenched fist all the fight seemed to drain out of her. As the fire drained in her eyes, she just looked old and sad, and with a weariness in her voice that echoed what Stiles feared would be all he’d find of himself in the near future, she explained.

“We were captured, in Russia. They found us out and they beat us up real bad…and we weren’t going to make it. When we somehow managed to break out, I just jumped anywhere I could.”

Her eyes were fixed on her hands and she continued, “So no, Derek, I didn’t come back to find you. And besides,-“ she looked up with hurt masquerading as tiredness in her eyes, “- when I got here, you were gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of Reach by Matthew Perryman Jones:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhIGAkfZCgY
> 
> Okay so I know I said 'soon' but in my defence I got a beast of a concussion and that meant I couldn't concentrate for long enough to write literally like the last 800 words of this chapter. It's here now though! Let me know what you guys think!
> 
> B  
> x


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